SAVAGE KILL

A DEAN BLACKWOOD THRILLER

SAM JONES

Copyright © 2025 by Sam Jones

This novel is a creation of the author’s imagination, crafted with care to deliver a unique story experience. The characters, events, and settings depicted are fictional, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or to real-life incidents or locales, is purely coincidental.

Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this book, in whole or in part, by any means—physical, electronic, or otherwise—is strictly prohibited without the express written permission of the author. If you wish to quote or reference any part of this work, please reach out to the author at info@samjonesauthor.com.

Thank you for respecting the hard work that went into creating this story.

PROLOGUE

The twenty-four members of the New Templars mumbled prayers under their breaths—ecclesiastical whispers crafted by the New Father and imparted to them by the Bishop.

“Be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power,” they muttered in muted unison. “Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realm.” They paused before intoning the slight tweak in the passage. “We do this in the name of the New Father.”

The Templars had never met their New Father, had never seen his face.

Their devotion to his cause—the Great Reckoning that would befall the City of Angels—was nevertheless unwavering.

The New Templars continued uttering their devotions on a loop for the better part of an hour. Kneeling strained their legs. The air was thick and stifling in their makeshift sanctum void of light, yet none of them complained. Each one had endured far worse physical trials in the course of their lives.

This was what they had been trained to do.

These twenty-four men had once fought for a shared cause, shedding blood and killing indiscriminately in the name of their country. But through the teachings of the New Father, they discovered that the cause was nothing more than a construct. His enlightenment revealed to them that they had been mere pawns in a game with no rules and no resolution.

The New Father had instilled his Templars with purpose—a goal, a crusade with true meaning. They would no longer use their skill sets and talents in vain.

The metal door behind the New Templars screeched open, signaling that their time of reflection and prayer had come to an end. All the members hung their heads and mumbled a collective amen before retrieving their rifles and shrugging them over their shoulders.

The Bishop entered the room. He nodded to the Templars—silent acknowledgment of their service to the New Father and the cause.

The members congregated in a semi-circle around one side of a circular wooden table.

The Bishop placed a laptop in the center.

Two of the members lit candles, spacing them in three-inch increments, creating a shrine-like circle around the device.

Standing in three equal rows of eight, the Templars clasped their hands in front of them, watching as the Bishop slowly opened the laptop, pressed play, and stood back.

The speaker crackled.

A faint, tinny breath echoed through the static.

“Grace to you all,” the voice of the New Father began, greeting his Templars with a cold, distant reverence. “I wish to bestow my gratitude to each and every one of you for your steadfast devotion during these last several months. No doubt all of you are weary beyond measure, but not one of you has shown the faintest break in stride.”

The New Templars bowed their heads.

The Bishop cracked the faintest hint of a grin.

“The final hour is upon us,” the New Father continued. “This—” He cleared his throat. “This righteous campaign to which we have dedicated ourselves has led us to this moment. The sacrifices you have made—and for the ultimate one you are all about to make—will secure your eternal place in Paradise.”

The New Templars remained still, their collective breath filling the air with a heavy sense of anticipation.

“Succeed in your mission,” the New Father went on. “There is no other option. You will not fail. Each and every one of you is a divine prospect, your path chosen long before you were brought into existence.” His voice swelled with determination. “My brothers, this final reckoning, this blessed holy awakening is the sole reason you have been placed on this earth.” He breathed deeply, his voice softening. “Bestow justice upon this wretched city. Cleanse it. Dispense the almighty wrath of the one true God. Erase the filth and detritus that have allowed this great metropolis to decay beyond repair.”

The New Templars held their heads high.

The Bishop approached the laptop, knowing the video was about to reach its end.

“Go, my blessed disciples,” the New Father concluded. “Do what you have been chosen and trained to do.”

The Bishop closed the laptop.

The New Templars fell into formation.

With the Bishop at the lead, the disciples of the New Father marched through the door and into the warehouse on the outskirts of Downtown Los Angeles near the Arts District.

With meticulous efficiency, the Templars gathered their gear from folding tables, cleaning and oiling their M4A1 carbines and SIG Sauer P228 pistols, checking each magazine and ensuring their sights were properly zeroed.

The communications specialist ran a final systems check on their Thales PRC-152 radios, confirming the encrypted frequencies were secure and that they were working flawlessly.

The explosives experts meticulously inspected the Semtex packets, adjusting the detonators and fine-tuning the electrical firing systems to ensure everything would trigger as planned.

The team’s tactical assault vests were fully loaded with mags, flashbangs, and grenades. The AT-4 rocket launcher sat in the corner, its high-explosive rounds checked and ready in case heavy armor or barricades needed to be dealt with.

Every piece of gear was accounted for. Precision was everything.

As soon as the New Templars were jocked up, they again fell into formation, standing at attention in three groups of eight. The Bishop methodically examined the three teams, smoothing the wrinkles in his freshly donned LAPD uniform. He offered a brief nod and a reassuring pat on the arm to the commander of each team.

Alpha.

Beta.

Omega.

The New Father had bestowed those designations on the units.

“Move out,” the Bishop barked.

The three teams quickly dispersed, loading into the fleet of vans and counterfeit LAPD cruisers parked at sharp angles throughout the warehouse.

The New Templars synchronized the time on their Rolex Submariners.

The Bishop did a press-check of his Beretta M9A3 before he slipped into the lead cruiser.The teams rolled out of the warehouse and made their way toward their destination seventeen miles away.

The Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena.

1

It had taken a full year for Dean Blackwood to master his breathing. Had it not been for his tutelage under Kadeem, he’d still be battling the demons in his head.

“Deepah,” Kadeem instructed, his Saint Kitts Creole saturating his words. “Dat’s it.”

Eyes closed and seated cross-legged on the bare wooden floor, Dean drew as much air into his lungs as possible, held it, and slowly blew it out through pursed lips. The low level of pollution on the two islands of Saint Kitts and Nevis along the Caribbean had been good for his physical and mental health.

“Tink ’bout a word now.”

Peace.

“Holl’ dat thought.”

Holding.

“Focus.” Dean heard Kareem take a sharp breath. “Breathe in deep again.”

Pain.

“Tek care now.”

Loss.

“Yuh han’ a tremblin’.”

Chaos.

Each inhale and exhale pulled Dean deeper into a state of tension, one he had come to dread. Eight months into this practice, he was still haunted by Woody, the voice in his head that refused to leave. This incessant chatter, a lingering echo from his drinking days, remained like an unshakeable presence, stubbornly refusing to fade despite Dean’s attempts to quiet it through meditation.

“Nice try, laddie,” Woody taunted. “But it ain’t working.”

A sweet-peppered and tensed up Dean snapped open his eyes. He flashed a pinched expression at Kadeem, shrugging his defeat. “I’m just not getting it, my friend.”

“Dat a’right,” Kadeem remarked, patting Dean on the back. “Yuh still gettin’ much better, Mista Jack.”

Jack MacCready was the name Dean went by among the locals. As far as they knew, he was a Canadian transplant who worked odd jobs for Kadeem. A friendship had developed between Dean and Kadeem, but primarily Kadeem was his meditation instructor. Dean had grown his hair and beard, his features further obscured by the sun’s harsh kiss from days spent working outdoors. The deliberate transformation made it harder to match his face on the growing stack of BOLOs and Wanted notices circulating throughout the FBI, CIA, LAPD, and a few other agencies.

You can’t go home.

Can’t go back.

Faces of Dean’s children, friends, and family dashed through his mind.

After Dean blew out a final exhale, Kadeem informed him that the time had come to stand. “We go try again morrow,” he said. “Yuh juss need more practice.”

Dean rose, straightened his back, and shuffled barefoot to the window that looked out at the heart of Basseterre, the capital of Saint Kitts and Nevis. He skimmed the narrow streets lined with colorful, colonial-style buildings, some showing wear from the island’s humidity. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the saltwater-laced air mixed with the faint smell of grilled fish. Chatter drifted up from the market square—locals haggling over fresh produce as well as the soft hum of steel drums in the distance, the island’s natural rhythm. The sights and smells were sharper for Dean now post-meditation, crystal clear.

Beautiful.

Serene.

Dean’s lips curled downward.

But I still want to go home.

Kadeem grinned, clapping his carob-skinned hand on Dean’s back. “Yuh all right? Yuh look a likkle pale.”

“Yeah.” Dean twisted his scowl into a forced smile. “I’m all right.”

Their meditation session for the day now complete, the pair gathered their belongings and made their way downstairs and outside to Independence Square. Side by side, they emerged into a spacious, open area surrounded by historical buildings with colonial architecture. Lush green palm trees lined its edges. At the center, a fountain added a serene touch, offering a peaceful contrast to the city’s bustling energy.

Tranquil.

It’s been a welcomed change of pace.

Recollections of the firefight Dean was in at Dodger Stadium swiftly reminded him why he couldn’t return home.

You might be here for a while.

Dean and Kadeem snaked through the bustling marketplace. The salty sea breeze mixed with the earthy scent of lush greenery. Sweet, fragrant tropical flowers blended in with the smoky aroma of street food being grilled nearby. Whiffs of citrus from fruit stalls and freshly cut grass added to the warm, stone scent of the buildings, creating a vibrant, layered atmosphere.

Don’t dwell on the past.

Focus on the now.

Dean furrowed his brow.

You are here because of the choices you made.

“I see yuh tinkin’, Mista Jack,” Kadeem mumbled. “Yuh mind deh somewhere else.”

With a nod, Dean confirmed his friend’s observation. Pretending around the seasoned man was a lost cause.

“Whazbout?”

“Home.”

“Where home?” Kadeem nudged Dean. “Yuh never tell me.”

During his time on the lam, Dean avoided revealing any details about himself beyond the fabricated story and background he had crafted. But from the first day of his friendship with Kadeem, he sensed that the learned native had a keen eye for deception. Kadeem never pressed Dean for the truth, but his curiosities—especially during Dean’s more contemplative moments—were occasionally aroused.

You trust him.

Dean cut a glance at Kadeem.

Maybe even with your life.

“Home’s a long way off, my friend,” Dean stated. “A long way.”

“Somet’in ah manage.” Kadeem tapped the side of his head. “Ah can sense it.”

“Very much so.” I’ve got every local and governmental law enforcement agency on the planet looking for me.

“You have a family?”

“I did.”

Kadeem knitted his brow. “Dem nah here no more?” He squinted. “Alive?”

Dean shook his head. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He struggled to find a brief way to explain that he had left them behind, that he’d chosen to distance himself after the years of chaos he’d brought into their lives. But every attempt at phrasing felt hollow.

The more Dean struggled to find the right words, the more the pained expression on his face deepened. Kadeem pulled back, no longer pushing for more. He simply gave Dean a reassuring pat on the back and said, “Don’t worry ’bout it” and then shifted to more mundane topics. “I have a few jobs for de day if you interested.”

Dean gave a silent acknowledgment, his posture indicating his willingness.

Then out of the corner of his eye, he saw him.

A man in a cream-colored suit, crisp and immaculate, was slipping through the door of the tavern across the street.

There you are.

Took you a minute.

Kadeem rattled off the slew of jobs he had lined up for the day—a roofing gig, an electrical job, and some landscaping work, prioritizing which ones they’d be able to get to and what the take would be that they would split.

Dean eyed Kadeem’s rust-streaked Toyota Hilux parked a few paces away, its truck bed packed to the brim with old, reliable equipment held together by duct tape and sheer determination. After they loaded their bags into the back, Kadeem offered Dean—Mista Jack—the chance to drive.

“Actually,” Dean narrowed his eyes, “I think I’ll meet you there in a little bit.”

Kadeem cocked his head to the side. “Everyt’ing all right?”

“Yeah.” Dean grabbed his bag and shot a quick glance at the tavern window, his eyes landing on the white man in the suit sitting at the bar. “Just gotta say a quick hello to somebody.”

A perplexed expression washed across Kadeem’s face. Dean knew very few people in this part of the world and didn’t socialize with any of them.

“Sure t’ing.” Kadeem got in behind the wheel of his Toyota. “I’ll see yuh.”

After waving goodbye and making sure Kadeem was on his way, Dean slipped quickly and quietly into the tavern. Once he was certain no one was watching, he drew his Colt 1911 from the back of his pants, pressed the rounds, and checked the chamber before sliding it back into his waistband.

Dean sighed deeply as he threaded his way deeper into the bar, certain that a team of Joint Special Operations Command grunts were lingering in the wings to take him into custody for the myriad of damages he had caused in Los Angeles.

2

The steady throb of calypso music inside the cozy tavern tucked away from the main street reminded Dean of how much he liked these islands. The air buzzed with local chatter and the clink of glasses, a few locals swapping stories as they watched a cricket match flickering on a TV mounted in the corner. The scent of grilled fish and jerk meats wafted from the kitchen, the aroma stirring Dean’s appetite. The bar was stocked with local rum and tropical cocktails. Seated at the bar was a man nursing a Painkiller, savoring every sip as he cut a glimpse at Dean out the corner of his eye.

Dean took a seat on the stool beside him. He stared straight ahead and ordered a virgin mojito as he retrieved a burner phone out of the pocket of his linen slacks.

“What’s good, Mikey?”

The man beside Dean saluted with two fingers. “Sorry to bum rush you like this, Deano.”

“I saw you coming.”

“Yeah?”

Dean flicked open a video on his cell phone and held it out. It was a picture of the man—Mike Holloway—wearing a suit and disembarking a charter plane at the Robert L. Bradshaw International Airport four hours before.

Holloway smirked. “Not bad.” He studied the photo of himself, wincing. “God Almighty. When did I start walking with a swagger?”

“Six-figure salary with the Company would put a pep in anyone’s step.”

“I didn’t bring anyone with me if that’s what you’re worried about, Deano.”

“I know you didn’t.” Dean pocketed the phone. “So what’s going on, Hollow Man?”

Holloway nudged his drink aside and turned his body slightly, deliberately spreading his posture to signal that he wasn’t armed. “How’ve you been, hombre?”

“Not bad.” The bartender plunked the virgin mojito on the bar. Dean thanked him with a nod. “Just taking it easy.”

“I can see that.” Holloway signaled to Dean’s shaggy hair and bushy beard. “You’ve really leaned into this whole island living thing.”

“It suits me.”

“You look good.”

“Same.” Dean motioned to his old Ranger buddy. “You still staying away from cigarettes?”

“A whole year now.” Holloway raised his drink in a toast. “Thanks for the push.”

“Same here.”

“You still clean?”

“Yes, sir. Not a drop of liquid courage for me. And I do morning meditations and everything like that now.”

“You definitely have a different aura about you.” Holloway gestured with his hands as if trying to size up Dean. “Like you’ve found your inner peace or some bullshit.”

“Have you ever heard of Jason Everman?”

Holloway shook his head. “Enlighten me.”

“Everman played guitar for Nirvana and bass for Soundgarden for a while,” Dean explained. “He got hip to Marcus Aurelius’ teachings about being a warrior and a thinker. After he quit music, he became a Green Beret.”

“So you took a hint from this Everman guy’s playbook.” Holloway swept his hands in a circle. “You just did it in reverse order.”

Dean winked. “It’s helping.”

“So you’re cured.”

“Wouldn’t go that far.” Dean reflected on the failure of his last session with Kadeem. “It’s still taking a bit of time.”

“Well, you definitely look better than the last time I saw you.” Holloway turned back to his drink. “You were banged up, hanging off the railing of the top level of Dodger Stadium. I’d say any improvement is a good one.”

Flashbacks of the shootout at the stadium where he and Holloway fought side by side played back in Dean’s mind in a blur, the chaos and adrenaline rushing through him once again. “Some night,” he muttered, reliving the moment he and the deranged hitwoman had crashed in a tangled heap in the section below the railing.

“Yeah.” Holloway sighed and scoffed at the same time. “Some night. Security at that stadium is now tighter than a snare drum. The teams that screen people at the gates could give the TSA a run for their money. You pissed off the natives, turning that place into the Alamo, but a buttload of them got jobs working security as a result.”

“Glass half full.”

“I guess.”

Dean ruminated on the shootout—the climax of an intricate case he and Holloway had worked on involving a celebrity cult, a gossip vlogger, and a string of shady Tinseltown characters. It led to two very different outcomes for both of them. Holloway landed a job with the CIA. Dean skipped town and headed for a country with no extradition.

A year ago.

Dean took a sip of his nonalcoholic drink.

Time flies.

“So,” Dean shot out his chin, “are you still working over at Langley?”

Holloway nodded. “Indeed I am.”

“I hope this little stop-off at the islands isn’t your way of trying to take me in, brother.”

Holloway shook his head. “It’s not what you think. Once I’m done saying what I need to say, you’ll be in a position to make one of two choices.”

“Which are?”

“Help me with my little problem,” Holloway said with a shrug. “And if you turn me down, I’ve been ordered to bring you in.”

Dean looked down at the countertop. “I see.” He checked his watch. “And if I give you the slip?”

“Look, bro. The CIA, FBI, and NSA have been wanting to bring you in for a long time. You’ve done a good job staying a step ahead of them, but I found you, and it wasn’t very hard.” Holloway shot a finger gun. “You’re clever, buddy, but you’re not that clever.”

Dean snickered. “Why haven’t they brought me in then?”

“I kept them at bay. Plain and simple. But those days are numbered. You help me out with my little issue, and all of that can go away.”

Dean’s heart skipped a beat at the prospect.

“In the past year, I’ve spearheaded the effort to find you,” Holloway continued. “And by ‘find you,’ I mean my efforts have extended to nothing more than making a few inquiries with your known associates.”

“Is that your way of telling me you did me a favor?”

“Yeah, dude. This isn’t a full-on manhunt at the moment, but don’t get too comfortable. People want to bring you in. There’s still a warrant for your arrest along with watchlists tracking your movements. It’s only a matter of time.”

“What about you, Mikey?” Dean asked. “You were riding shotgun the whole ride with me. We tore ass through LA like Tango and Cash.”

“I cut a deal.” Holloway pointed a finger. “You could’ve done the same, but you chose to head out of town.”

“I had to.”

“I know. And I understood why you did it. You wanted to keep your family safe.”

“Well,” Dean shrugged, “are they?”

“They are. Your ex-wife is doing well. Same for your kids.” Holloway grinned. “As for Layla, I guess the two of you never really landed on a title, did you?”

Dean traced his finger around the rim of his glass. “Titles didn’t bother us.” Dean turned to face Holloway. “I had to put distance between me and them for a spell. It was the only guarantee that they would be out of harm’s way.”

Holloway flashed a crooked smile. “Well, it seems to have worked. Your boy Jeremy is kicking ass over at that little private academy he’s attending. Your daughter Grace is walking now. Apparently, she’s a voracious reader. It’s only picture books at this age, but still.”

Smart.

Both of my kids.

Neither are chips off the old block.

Thank God.

Dean allowed his eyes to well up with tears but refused to actually cry. “What about Layla?”

“She’s living in Austin, Texas, now,” Holloway said. “She co-hosts a crime podcast. I pulled up a pair of episodes on the flight over. Girl seems to have found her calling. You should give it a listen.”

“I’d prefer to listen to what you know about my family.”

“Well, I’ve got a message here. Layla’s the one who sent it.”

A cascade of emotions overcame Dean—fear, adoration, regret, shame. “What did she say?”

“She’s worried about you,” Holloway said. “She wants to know you’re okay. She understands what happened back in LA during our little,” he chuckled, “escapade. The woman still has her concerns and fears, but her biggest one right now is making sure you’re okay. She told me to tell you—if I ever saw you—that she’d like to hear your voice again.”

A long moment passed as Dean fiddled with his drink. He wanted to see Layla. His kids. His entire family. “I can’t go back until I know I’m in the clear,” he said. “Hollow Man, I can’t be in the same room with any of them until I can guarantee their safety. Like you said,” he nodded at his buddy, “I’m still a wanted man.”

“You can change that.”

“By taking this job?”

Holloway nodded. “You take this assignment, and I’ll leverage the right channels to have your file expunged—charges nullified, status downgraded to non-priority. You can go home and see your family again.”

It sounded like a good prospect, but Dean couldn’t help but be skeptical. “What’s the job?”

Holloway checked over his shoulder, making sure no bar clientele were listening. “Have you heard about the thing in LA?”

“What thing?”

“You really don’t know?” Holloway shook his head. “Man, you really are living off the grid.”

“Mikey,” Dean grunted. “Tell me.”

Holloway sniffled.

Pulled out his phone.

Selected a video and placed the device in front of Dean.

“This,” Holloway explained, “is the current state of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, captured by an RQ-4 Global Hawk drone.”

Dean zoomed in on the footage, an aerial shot spanning about six miles of familiar territory—his childhood city. His uncanny ability to recall every detail with vivid clarity had given him an intricate mental map of his old stomping grounds, one that obviously looked far different than it used to.

Dean stared at the video and grimaced at the sight of JPL—now a bloody, fire-scorched war zone.

3

“Hollow,” Dean whispered as he zoomed in on several areas of JPL plagued by fires, overturned cars, and what appeared to be cordoned-off zones overtaken by thugs. “What the hell am I looking at here?”

“That—the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, the research facility connected loosely to NASA—has been taken over by a group of mercenaries.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I’m afraid not.” Holloway gestured to the feed. “One week ago, a coordinated attack took place at JPL. These bastards hit fast and hard, overwhelming the scene immediately. It was a textbook siege.”

Dean zoomed in on the scene. JPL, a symbol of cutting-edge technology and space exploration nestled at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains, was under siege. The familiar modern and older buildings were marked by the chaos of the assault. Antennas and communication dishes, once silently transmitting vital data, were now twisted and shattered. The once tranquil grounds were littered with debris, the greenery trampled by mercenaries who had struck faster than lightning. The mountains to the north loomed ominously, casting long shadows over a complex that had once been extremely secure, now overrun and smoldering.

Charred, burned-out vehicles lined the roads that led to the complex that was now blocked on all sides with makeshift barricades. Mercenaries controlled the surrounding streets, snipers lurked on rooftops, and armored vehicles formed checkpoints at points of ingress and egress. JPL had been completely cordoned off, a fortress under siege. On the video, Dean could see the military precision in the mercenaries’ tactics—surveillance drones hovered above, while IEDs and ambush points littered the outskirts.

Every escape route is cut off.

Dean’s hand trembled.

That place is locked down tight.

“These guys,” Holloway went on, “used asymmetric tactics and hit-and-run ambushes. They laid down overwatch positions at key intersections. The initial assault was brutal. They blocked off major roads, setting up kill zones at every entry point into JPL and the surrounding area.”

“Standard procedure for a siege,” Dean said. “Cut off reinforcements, control the flow of information, and make escape nearly impossible.”

Holloway nodded confirmation. “Snipers took out cops trying to approach the periphery while heavy machine gun teams kept most law enforcement officers at bay.”

Dean fast-forwarded the recording to see more of the carnage. “How the hell did the police not stop them?”

“The local PD was caught flat-footed,” Holloway explained. “They tried to form a perimeter defense, but without proper coordination and support, they were overwhelmed by the sheer volume of firepower these guys brought in.”

“Who are they?”

“Mercenaries, likely former contractors or even ex-private-military contractors. One guy is wearing an LAPD uniform—not sure yet who he is. They came equipped with military-grade weapons—M240s, M249s, and AT-4s for anti-armor. The cops were outgunned, and the SWAT teams didn’t have the fire support or intel to counter their setup. These mercs were using coordinated suppression fire to hold down the whole campus.”

“So they basically set up their own little war zone,” Dean muttered, still processing the chaos. “The cops were screwed from the jump.”

“Exactly,” Holloway confirmed. “The mercenaries used small-unit tactics—divide and conquer. A few of them took the high ground in buildings on the campus and provided covering fire, while the others moved in on foot, clearing out one area at a time. They also had logistical support—food, ammo, medical supplies—all funneled in through underground tunnels weeks in advance. The whole place was turned into a well-organized stronghold.”

Dean looked back at the screen, his jaw clenched. “And this is still going on?”

“Not just going on—it’s getting worse,” Holloway said grimly. “All of Pasadena is on lockdown. The town close by, La Cañada Flintridge, is under curfew due to its proximity to what they’re calling the Hot Zone. The mercs have fortified key buildings inside JPL and set up a command and control center in JPL’s Space Flight Operations Facility. They’ve fended off every counteroffensive so far. Every entry and exit is booby-trapped with anti-personnel mines, pressure plates, and a full array of intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance systems—motion sensors, thermal imaging, acoustic sensors. Anything that can detect movement, they’ve got it covered. The longer this goes on, the harder it will be to get them out.”

Dean exhaled, watching the screen as smoke curled from the edges of the buildings. “Some kind of response on a military level should have been taken.”

“There was.”

“What did it look like?”

Holloway’s finger traced an imaginary outline of JPL on the counter. “SEAL Team 6 element was deployed two days after the initial attack. They were tasked with a direct action raid to clear out the mercenaries and take control of the facility.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “SEAL Team 6? You can’t exactly catch those guys off guard.”

Holloway exhaled sharply. “Not usually. But this was no standard op. The mercenaries knew the team was coming. As soon as the SEALs hit the ground, they walked right into an ambush.” Holloway tapped his finger in the middle of his countertop perimeter.

“How the hell did they know the SEALs were coming?”

“Electronic warfare,” Holloway replied, his tone grim. “The mercs were using SIGINT to intercept and jam communications. They had their own command and control network set up and spoofed the SEAL team’s entry routes using decoy signals and fake intel.”

“They guided them into a trap.”

“And then the SEALs tried to infiltrate from the northwest quadrant, but the mercenaries had already placed IEDs, remote-triggered mines, and anti-vehicle barriers there.”

Dean scowled. “The SEALs couldn’t even move in without getting caught.”

“They were forced into the facility and immediately came under heavy fire from rooftops. Snipers and spotters had the high ground, and the mercs didn’t hesitate to engage with heavy machine guns and rocket-propelled grenades from multiple positions.”

Dean ran a hand over his face. The more Holloway laid out the situation, the more he questioned if he was living in a dream. “How the hell did they do this?”

“The mercenaries anticipated urban warfare tactics and leveraged their superior knowledge of JPL’s layout. The SEALs went in with a two-pronged assault, but the mercs divided and conquered. They blocked off the escape routes and set up ambush points with vehicle-mounted weapons. When the SEALs tried to pull back to their exfiltration point, the mercs coordinated a counterassault using flank tactics.”

“So the SEALs got boxed in.”

“Yeah,” Holloway said grimly. “And to make matters worse, the no-fly zone the mercs had set up with their electronic warfare systems kept any air support from coming in. We can’t even fly drones in that space anymore. All we’ve got is satellite feeds. By the time the SEALs were in the thick of it, they couldn’t call in close air support, and the quick reaction force wasn’t able to break through. When they managed to get a helicopter extraction team in, three of the SEALs were KIA and two were seriously wounded.”

Dean shook his head. “This wasn’t just an ambush.” He handed the phone back to Holloway. “They were set up.”

Holloway nodded. “It was a deliberate kill zone. These guys aren’t just mercenaries. They know military tactics inside and out. This was a well-coordinated, multi-layered attack, and they had the edge because they were controlling the terrain and the environment. What we’re dealing with right now is something like the Waco standoff, but a hell of a lot uglier. We’ve got trained professionals in there who have demonstrated their ability to lay claim to this place for as long as they deem fit.”

“But why JPL? Why Pasadena?” Dean asked. “Why not Washington, DC? Downtown LA?”

“The theory bouncing around is that first they needed a high-tech command center and all the great tech stuff at JPL. Their main target might be something much bigger.”

Dean paused, the layout of JPL rushing through his head. “So what are you pitching here? You want to send me in—one lone man—to try to do something about this?” He cut a skewed look at Holloway.

Holloway chuckled. “Well, you’re no Captain America.”

“Then why me?”

“After the SEAL incursion, members of the team who walked away managed to retrieve a body of one of the mercs they put down. They identified him positively as former Lieutenant Mark P. Kennefick.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Kennefick?” He took a beat. “Please tell me that’s not the same Mark Kennefick from⁠—”

“Our old unit?” Holloway nodded slowly. “Yeah, buddy.” He downed the last of his drink. “It is.”

“Kennefick,” Dean mumbled. “They’re sure it’s him?”

Holloway nodded. “They ran his prints. And Kennefick didn’t die right away either after he was hauled in. He was just wounded when the SEAL team pulled him out of the Hot Zone, but life clung to him like a disease for a couple hours. They managed to keep him alive long enough for him to say something about “the wretched city” and to extract the name of the man leading the charge inside JPL.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What name did Kennefick give up?”

“Stoker,” Holloway grumbled. “Major Ethan Emanuel Stoker.”

Dean closed his eyes.

Son of a bitch.

“Yeah,” Holloway said. “Stoker.” He shook his head. “Our old Major Stoker from the unit.”

4

“He’s out?” Dean said, his eyes wide with incredulity. “Stoker’s out of prison?”

Holloway nodded. “A year ago. He disappeared shortly after he was paroled. No one’s seen him since. If Kennefick is telling the truth, that Stoker is the one leading these mercs, then our old Major has just made his not-so-triumphant return.”

“Fucking Kennefick.” Dean sighed deeply. “I’m not surprised he folded under the pressure. Jesus, if it really is Stoker who took over JPL, there’s a chance Crisp might be with him too.”

It became clear to Dean that the CIA and the other agencies in charge of the JPL siege were attempting to implement a Hail Mary play.

“They want to send me,” Dean said, “to try to talk Stoker down?”

“If you can,” Holloway replied. “Sure.”

“What exactly is the CIA’s plan? What do they want to do?” Dean insisted on knowing.

“This is the DHS, CIA, and FBI task force here.”

“But the CIA is calling the shots,” Dean reminded Holloway.

“More or less.”

Dean straightened his back. “I have a feeling that all the top dogs are considering some kind of tactical retaliation, maybe even something in the vein of a drone strike.”

“It’s on the table,” Holloway said, leaning forward. “But I pushed hard to get a specialist sent in. To be frank, they didn’t hesitate when I suggested deploying a lone wolf—someone who knows this guy, someone with a golden tongue of persuasion who always hits the ground running and does the job fast. Usually on his own terms, but fast and effective.”

“Because if it doesn’t work and I die,” Dean shrugged, “they only wasted one man, a fugitive who’s been on their radar for some time. No sweat off their asses.”

“The decision-makers want boots on the ground to assess the situation firsthand, and if that same person can neutralize some of these mercenaries’ key players in the process, all the better.” Holloway studied Dean for a moment. “You’ve got the right skills. They want someone who’s not afraid to get dirty and has that kind of experience. And let’s be honest, Dean. Your reputation is someone who gets results—no matter what insane methods he uses.”

Dean exhaled, the weight of the assignment settling in. “So they want me to go in, assess the situation, annihilate anyone I can, and schmooze their leader—our buddy Major Stoker—to talk the rest of them down. Clean. Efficient. Cold.”

Holloway nodded. “Exactly. They’re hoping for a swift takedown, but it’s more about getting eyes on the ground, figuring out how deep this goes, and finding the head of the snake. If you can cut it off and take some of them out along the way, that would be great.” He wagged a finger. “Just don’t come back empty-handed, and come back alive.”

Dean nodded slightly, knowing full well that taking out a few men wouldn’t be a problem. It was coming back alive that would be challenging. “And what do I gain from it? I mean, you’re not giving me a choice here. I either do this or get placed in shackles and thrown in a federal pen.”

“You get a clean slate. No questions asked.” Holloway leaned back. “I told them that all I could do was find you and make the request. It’s your decision, bud.” His expression softened. “And I wasn’t and still am not planning on throwing the cuffs on you, Deano. If you run, I won’t chase you.” He paused. “I just won’t be able to call off the attack dogs anymore. If you turn me down, I can’t run interference for you like I have been for the past year.”

“How many of these mercs are in there?”

“Our initial assessment tallied somewhere between twenty and twenty-five,” Holloway said. “After the standoff with the LAPD and the SEAL incursion, our spotters think their numbers are down to something like eighteen.”

“Something like eighteen.”

Holloway raised his shoulders. “It’s fucked, kid. I don’t know what to tell you. We’re one week into what has to be the single greatest domestic terror attack on a major American facility and research center, and it will probably expand to more of Pasadena and eventually to LA. These guys have JPL on lockdown, and we’re running out of time.”

Dean looked at the floor. “How do you know all these psychos are domestic?”

Saying nothing, Holloway took out his phone again, swiped it several times, pulled up an MP4 file, and pressed play.

Holloway held up the phone so Dean could watch footage that looked eerily similar to the Al Qaeda and ISIS hostage videos he and the rest of Americans were forced to watch back when Dean was a Ranger. There were two men standing guard in front of a white flag emblazoned with a cross that appeared to be made of blood. Their faces were masked. The same went for the third man standing in front of them, his blue eyes pinned to the camera as he delivered a message in a voice that had been distorted through several filters.

“We, the New Templars,” the leader began, his voice cold and deliberate, “claim responsibility for the attacks here at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. With this territory now under our control, we will initiate a sweeping purge of the innocent and the guilty, and each one will face either judgment or mercy.”

My God.

Dean squinted.

The voice went on. “Any attempt to interfere with our righteous campaign will be met with swift and unwavering justice. We are the right hand of the one true creator. We are the disciples of the New Father, and we⁠—”

Dean paused the video. “There,” he said, pointing to the leader. “His eyes.” He glanced at Holloway. “Looks like Stoker’s eyes, doesn’t it? This dude has that same piercing stare.”

Holloway nodded, saying nothing.

“And the guys holding the flag,” Dean motioned to the hints of white skin around the edges of their masks. “Please tell me that you ran this through⁠—”

“A Technical Operations Officer from the Directorate of Operations,” Holloway answered quickly. “They’ve already run the SIGINT and MASINT analysis on the audio. Those accents? Definitely Midwestern, somewhere like Ohio. The Forensic Video Analyst from FMEG processed the footage using image enhancement tools to confirm those are M4 carbines and Urban Multicam uniforms straight from US military stock. I can tell by the tactical vests, too—mil-spec radios, echelon pouches. The whole setup screams former military. And we got a hit on the comms—American equipment. These guys aren’t foreign operatives. They’re homegrown.”

“Strange,” Dean remarked, zooming in on the faces on the video. “These guys went through a hell of a planning stage to see that this op was carried out with the highest level of precision, but you managed to figure out they were US citizens,” he snapped his fingers, “like that.”

“I agree,” Holloway said. “It’s almost like …” His voice trailed.

“Like Stoker and his cohorts want us to know they’re a domestic terrorist cell—that it’s Stoker who’s responsible for this.” Dean moved away from the phone. “Have they cited any demands? A ransom?”

“Negative.”

“Then what do they want?” Dean replayed the video in his mind, still perplexed by the cryptic, heavy-handed religious overtones from the group’s leader—someone he was certain was Major Stoker.

“We don’t know for sure,” Holloway said, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. JPL is a goldmine of cutting-edge technology, classified research, and satellite systems that could be weaponized or sold to the highest bidder. These Templar goons have also …” He huffed.

“What?”

“It’s bizarre.”

“Tell me.”

Holloway ticked his voice down further. “They’ve essentially recruited some of the employees there at JPL into following them. Our spotter on the outskirts of the campus—right before he got shot by a sniper—clocked a group of several plainclothes individuals with makeshift weapons and red crosses painted on their clothing and foreheads. Apparently they were chanting, ‘Long live the New Father.’”

“The New Father?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that the guy in the video? Is Stoker this New Father?”

“We don’t know,” Holloway said. “We’ve gone through every OSINT database we have—nothing. I checked HUMINT reports, scrubbed the SIGINT intercepts, even tried pulling intel from the FBI's JTTF—zilch. No chatter, no leads, not a single known TTP or IED signature linked to this cell.” His voice turned raspy. “It’s like they popped out of thin air, Deano.”

Nothing but the chuff of the ceiling fan, the cricket match on TV, and the chatter of the other patrons in the bar was audible for several moments as Dean digested the information. He took a few sips of his drink.

Stoker went rogue. He snapped, lost touch with reality, and decided to lay siege to JPL—apparently driven by some twisted religious agenda that makes no sense to anyone but him.

“I don’t get it, Holloway,” Dean mumbled. “Stoker was always a bit of a tyrannical shit bag, but he was a patriot. He would have bled on the flag to keep the colors red.”

Holloway flagged down the bartender for another drink. “You know how easy it is for the mind of a soldier to snap, Dean.”

“But he’s got no demands.” Dean nodded to the phone. “He’s just speaking crazy shit without any substance.”

“That’s why we need you to go in there. Figure this out. Find out if it truly is Stoker who’s leading these guys. Reason with our infamous Major. Maybe put him down along with his faithful followers.” Holloway grimaced. “You’re up against shit odds here, Deano. But the Special Activities Division will turn you loose to do whatever you want to get this done. Free rein. Go rogue. And if you fail⁠—”

“I get a posthumous pardon and my family gets a crisply folded flag.” Dean shot a thumbs up. “I get the picture.”

Not another word passed between the two men. Dean spent the next several minutes thinking about and considering his decision.

You’ve wanted to go home for a while.

You’ve wanted to be free of all the charges hanging over your head.

You’ve wanted your family back.

Is this that opportunity?

Your chance of success, of walking away from it alive, are slim.

“It is not death that a man should fear,” Dean mumbled, “but he should fear never beginning to live.”

Holloway shot him a look. “Who said that?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean pushed his virgin mojito aside. “I’m just trying to make myself feel better. In a lot of ways, I …” his lips cracked into a lopsided grin, “always felt like something like this was going to happen. Never thought it would be this big, but the timing of your request seems right.”

Holloway shrugged. “The choices are limited here, amigo. I never wanted this moment to happen.”

“But now,” Dean said, “it sounds like it is happening.”

Dean laughed.

Holloway did the same.

“So you’ll do it?” Holloway asked.

“Yeah.” Dean placed some cash on the counter and stood up. “Like you said,” he shrugged, “what friggin’ choice do I have?”

5

The Gulfstream G5 jet hummed through the air, its engines a constant drone that seemed to press in on Dean from all sides. Seated at the back of the cabin, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the endless stretch of clouds outside, each one like an oppressive weight bearing down on his chest. Thoughts rushed in faster than he could push them out, swirling in a chaotic mess, each one sharper than the last, gnawing at him like a constant itch.

This sucks.

Dean drew in a deep breath.

All of it.

“Yo, Deano,” Holloway said from across the aisle. “Something I’m curious about.”

“What’s that?”

“A year ago when we worked on that case I remember you mentioning,” Holloway bit his lip, “a voice in your head.”

Dean flicked a perturbed look at Holloway. “I never said I had a voice in my head.”

“Your file I pulled said differently.”

“It’s not …” Dean took a moment to tamp down his irritation before continuing. “Back when I quit drinking, my inner monologue, or whatever you want to call it, sounded like a voice in my head as a result of going sober. It happens. It’s a whole condition.”

“What’s the condition called?”

“Back off, bro.”

Holloway held up his hands. “You were just saying you made it your mission to find some distance and peace by going AWOL on everybody. I was wondering if you were able to curb this, well, voice or whatever you wanna call it.”

A big mandate Dean had during his time in the Caribbean was to get rid of Woody. While he had cut down on the frequency of the visits, the little prick bastard still showed up once in a blue moon.

“Why are you bringing this up, Hollow?” Dean said. “Are you worried this is going to interfere in my ability to do this little kamikaze job you’ve got lined up for me?”

Holloway shrugged. “A little.”

“Well, don’t worry about it.” Dean could hear Woody chuckling, a sign that the little man was revved up and thrilled to embark on another—potentially suicidal—mission. “Just tell me how the hell I’m getting into JPL undetected.”

“It’s simple,” Holloway explained. “We’re going to insert you in through⁠—”

“Before we talk about that,” Dean cut in, his thoughts on his father, Donald Blackwood, “I wanna know if my old man is doing all right.”

Holloway shifted his weight nervously. “He, uh …” He rapped his knuckles softly on the arm of his seat. “He’s been in a home for the past six months.”

Dean gazed over at his friend. “Working for the CIA did wonders for your bedside manner there, Hollow. I was sure you were about to tell me he was⁠—”

“He’s not.”

“So he’s okay?”

“He’s hanging on by a thread, quite honestly.” Holloway rested his head back on his seat. “But aside from that, he’s worried about where you are and what you’re up to, like Layla and the rest of them.”

Another person entered Dean’s mind—someone he’d worried about for some time. “How’s Freddy?” he asked Holloway. “How’s he hanging in there?”

A chortle slipped out of Holloway. “Kid’s just as tenacious as he’s always been. Still a big pain in the ass and still running that PI firm of yours over in Hollywood. He does some freelance work for me every now and then. He doesn’t ask about you.” Holloway displayed a wry smile. “I think the kid’s just sad that you’re gone. He acts like he doesn’t care where you are, but his Internet history is riddled with searches for you. Pretty sure he’s been trying to track you down.”

Poor kid.

Dean recalled the litany of times he caught Freddy blasting music and belting the lyrics in a high falsetto.

He’s the best pain-in-the-ass protégé I could have ever asked for.

Dean grabbed the bottle of water the flight attendant had given him before takeoff. “Well, if I make it out alive, I’ll be able to pop in and see him.” He turned toward Holloway, his thoughts centered on Stoker. “None of this makes any sense, Hollow.”

“What doesn’t make sense?”

“Stoker being the leader of a rogue group of religious fanatics. He was an atheist his entire career. He wore that badge proudly.” Dire recollections of his time in the service flooded Dean’s mind. “Hell, half of us wondered if there was a God after what we went through.”

Holloway raised both hands, palms up. “Stranger things have happened, buddy boy. And the fact that you know Stoker⁠—”

“Knew.”

“The fact that you used to serve under him gives you an edge here. You’ve worked with him in the field, seen how he thinks, how he coordinates operations. You know his methods, his tendencies—things that others might miss.”

Dean steeled himself. “Do you know?”

“Know what?”

“About what I did?” Dean turned down his gaze. “What happened between me, Stoker, Kennefick, and Crisp?”

“I left the unit about six months before you got discharged, Deano.” Holloway’s voice was steady but carried an edge of weariness. “That being said, Stoker’s story was covered ad nauseam wall-to-wall back in 2013. I pulled the file on what went down that day to get a deeper sense of it.” Holloway motioned to Dean. “But we both know a file doesn’t tell the whole story. It’s a hell of a lot different hearing it straight from the person who lived it.”

The grim memory—one of many that Dean recalled with perfect clarity—was exhumed from its archives. Like every recollection he had, he could remember the sights, sounds, and smell down to the most trivial of details.

“Stoker,” Dean grumbled, “was accused of killing a teenage prisoner in his custody, shooting unarmed civilians, and posing for photos with the bodies of deceased prisoners.” He balled a fist. “Photos taken by me.”

Holloway said nothing, listening intently.

“In August 2008,” Dean went on, “just after you left the unit, I was on a mission with Stoker leading the charge. The op seemed straightforward—sweep a village in Kandahar, round up suspected Taliban fighters. But we were working with sketchy intel—HUMINT was all over the place, and we were doing our best to sort out who was who. In the end, we detained eight men who had been fingered by local sources as Taliban informants. Their names came from a mix of questionable intel, but we were told they were all somehow connected to the insurgency.”

Dean recalled the heat that day, the way it clung to his skin like a second layer.

The grit of dust stinging his eyes, blurring his vision as he moved through the chaos.

The confusion, the screams, the desperate protests of the villagers—each one echoing in his mind, a cacophony of voices that still haunted him.

“Stoker was on edge that day,” Dean continued. “He had been for a while. Motherfucker was two steps shy of going Colonel Kurtz for weeks.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting the onset of a headache. “The guys we were trying to round up started yelling over each other while we were attempting to question them. One of them, this sixteen-year-old kid, started to get testy with Stoker. He kept yelling about us being invaders and infidels and …” Dean waved his hand through the air. “Well, you get the picture.”

Dean recalled Stoker’s blue eyes, brimming with fury.

The teenager screaming at Stoker, foam accumulating in the corners of his mouth.

“The kid just kept yelling,” Dean went on. “Over and over again. Crisp tried to secure the kid’s wrist with zip ties, but he couldn’t wrangle him.” Dean closed his eyes. “Then it happened. Stoker snapped. He pulled out his Ka-Bar and stuck it between the kid’s ribs. The kid went limp and fell to the ground after that. I’m pretty sure he died right away.” Dean’s hand trembled. “But in his rage, Stoker decided to stab the kid again, and again, and again.” He drew a breath. “He stuck the poor kid twenty-eight times with his Ka-Bar before Crisp pulled him off the kid’s body.”

A pale-faced Holloway averted his gaze, his expression a mix of horror and rage.

“Two of the other villagers tried to intervene.” Dean rested his head, playing back the memory at high speed. “They tried pleading with Stoker to show mercy. They tried to explain that they weren’t with the Taliban, but it was a lost cause at that point.” Dean shook his head. “I tried speaking up. By then, Stoker had pulled out his sidearm and pointed it in my face. He told me to keep quiet and follow orders.” Dean took a beat, his stomach knotting as he replayed the next part in his head. “That’s when Stoker ordered Crisp and Kennefick to shoot the rest of the men we had rounded up. I didn’t participate. In fact, I tried to stop it, but Crisp pistol-whipped me, took my rifle, and told me to take a walk.”

Nothing but the rumble of the G5’s engines were audible for a moment.

Holloway stroked his chin contemplatively.

Dean, after taking a few seconds to breathe, rallied and continued. “I wasn’t just gonna turn a blind eye. The first thing I did was go straight to Major Hayes. He’s a Ranger, too—seasoned, knows how the game’s played. I knew I needed someone who’d understand the importance of what had just happened. You don’t just walk into JAG without covering your ass first.”

Dean shifted his body, his expression hardening. “I told Hayes exactly what happened, the way Crisp, Kennefick, and Stoker killed all those people in cold blood.” He shook his head, recalling the moment. “Hayes didn’t take it lightly. He could’ve swept it under the rug, but he knew better. He took the intel I gave him and then went to the Battalion XO—Colonel Myers. From there, it went to Brigade. You don’t go right to JAG with this kind of thing without making sure your story’s locked down, especially when it involves an officer like Stoker. So we got the investigation rolling, and I had to give a statement to the Criminal Investigation Division—CID. From there, the ball was in their court.”

Holloway leaned back, a grim look on his face.

“But you know how it works.” Dean shrugged. “There’s always fallout. It wasn’t just Stoker or Crisp or Kennefick’s career on the line—it was the fucking unit’s integrity too. And even when they went after Stoker, I had to keep my head down. You report a Major for something like that, you’d better be ready for everything to change.” He drummed his fingers on his leg. He was anxious to finish telling the story. “Once I gave my statement to CID, it all started going downhill fast. I thought Stoker might wriggle out of it, but once the investigation picked up speed, there was no turning back.”

Dean leaned forward. His eyes hardened as he remembered the pushback. “Crisp and Kennefick—at first, they stood by Stoker. Kennefick? Loyal to the end. He wouldn’t flip, even when things got tight. He kept backing Stoker, even when the evidence started stacking up.” He flared his nostrils, the memory still raw. “The worst part? A few of the guys I thought I could trust bailed out on me. Smitty, Reynolds—guys we served with for years—refused to help when I went to them. They were scared of the fallout, scared of the heat they’d catch for crossing the chain like that. Even when I asked them to back me up, they shut me down. Smitty just looked at me and said, ‘You’re on your own, man.’ And Reynolds? He flat-out said he wasn’t gonna risk his career.”

Dean paused and gazed out the window of the plane, frustration creeping back into his voice. “But it didn’t matter. The testimonies, the photos—too much to ignore. Stoker’s claim of ‘collateral damage’ didn’t hold up. Eventually, the truth came out, and they all went down. Stoker got ten years, Crisp and Kennefick ended up serving five.”

“I’m sorry, Deano,” Holloway said, his tone glazed with sympathy. “If I had been there, I would have backed you.”

“What happened, happened. Crisp, Stoker, and Kennefick deserved more than what they got.” Dean blinked his eyes. Stoker’s face burned a little too brightly in his mind. “The day Stoker went away, he promised he’d find a way to get me. I’m the one who put him, Crisp, and Kennefick away.”

“They don’t know you’re coming, Deano.”

“If they figure it out though …” Dean shrugged, his mind flashing with a string of colorful hypotheticals—images of what Stoker would do to him if given the chance. “But enough about that.” He straightened his back. “When we get to Pasadena, what’s the plan? You said these Templar goons have the JPL campus on lockdown, so again, how exactly am I getting in?”

“A diversion,” Holloway explained, holding up his hands like he was warming up an orchestra. “After we take you to the command center we’ve set up, we’ll outfit you with a slew of gear. Once you’re jocked up, we’ll take you to the infiltration point. We’re slapping together a plan now on how to get you in.”

“You said the Templars had it rigged with infrared and motion detectors.”

“They do. But we’ve spent the past week gathering enough intel to come up with a solid plan. After you’re geared up, you’ll head to an entry point on the west and wait for the diversion.”

Dean shrugged. “What’s the diversion?”

“We’re going to feign like we’re launching another incursion into the facility from the east,” Holloway explained. “That’ll draw the Templars’ attention. Based on the security measures we’ve managed to scope out on the Templars, the CIA’s cyber team will trigger a localized blackout, scrambling the Templars’ surveillance systems and cutting power to key sectors. That will give you a window to move undetected.”

“How long?”

“We’re still working on it,” Holloway said. “It’ll be a tight window either way, but I’m confident you’ll make it. Again, when I pitched to the brass that I wanted Dean “Ballistic” Blackwood to take a run at this thing, the guys who knew you were grinning like a bunch of idiots.”

“I’m sure they were.” Dean stroked his chin, imagining how the next hours of his life would play out and, more importantly, if he would survive. “Assuming I get inside, how will I report to you guys?”

“You’ll be checking in and communicating with one person and one person only. They’ll serve as your—I don’t know what to call it—guide or liaison as you navigate. If you have a problem, you’ll tell that person, and they’ll pass it up the chain. The two of you will be communicating on an encrypted network that you’ll both have access to.”

“This person.” Dean leaned in closer to Holloway. “Who is he?”

6

Special Agent Lillian Caine extended her hand, her tone flat as she clearly stated her name. Dean shook her hand and gave her a quick once-over—tall with the athletic build of a basketball player, her posture stiff and her expression as hard as her gaze. Her brunette hair was pulled back tightly, the rigid bun almost military in its precision, but even with the severity of it, her natural beauty still cut through.

“Agent Blackwood,” Caine said, gesturing to the cramped, makeshift operations center inside the gymnasium of La Cañada High School. “Welcome to the command post.”

The trio—Holloway, Caine, and Dean—walked through the temporary command center set up less than a mile from the Hot Zone—the JPL campus. Nearly 100 agents from various three-letter agencies crowded the gymnasium, huddled around makeshift workstations and laptops. Some agents were stretched out on cots catching what little rest they could, while others took quick breaks in the locker room that used to belong to the LCHS Spartans—although judging by their record, the only thing those lockers ever held was disappointment.

“Agent Caine,” Dean said. “FBI? CIA?”

“FBI,” Caine chirped while impatiently checking the time on her watch.

“I don’t understand.” Dean looked at Holloway. “I thought this was the CIA’s show.”

Holloway held up a finger. “You’re well aware that the CIA isn’t allowed to operate on domestic soil.” He motioned to Caine. “Officially, the FBI is calling the shots here.”

Dean flashed a big smile. “But not really.”

“Negative. We hand-selected Caine to be our liaison as we carry out the operation.”

“My presence here is to make things look official,” Caine added. “When this is all over, I’ll be the one fielding the questions from the Senate Intelligence Committee and any other department that wants to know what happened.” She pointed to Dean and then to herself. “You handle the operation, I’ll handle the optics.”

Dean frowned. “You’re good with all of that?”

Caine shrugged. “It’s not my first rodeo. I've been put in this position more times than I care to count. When things need to look a certain way, I get tapped to do the legwork—keep things clean, keep things quiet. It’s just part of the job, whether it’s the FBI or the Agency pulling the strings.”

“Which division of the Bureau are you with?”

“Counterterrorism.” She briefly examined Dean. “And I know all about you, Agent Blackwood.”

“Is that so?”

“Anyone who’s ever worked at the Bureau knows the stories about Ballistic Blackwood. Your exploits are …” Caine scoured her brain for the right word, “well, famous and infamous all at the same time.”

“So I’ve heard.” Dean stuck out his lower lip. “What made you pivot from being a lab rat to working⁠—?”

“Agent Blackwood,” Caine interrupted, facing Dean.

“Former Agent Blackwood.”

“We’re on a bit of a timetable. I apologize for being curt with you like this, but we’re about to launch this faux attack on the JPL campus in forty-five minutes.” Caine motioned to Holloway. “I’m certain Agent Holloway has informed you of the infiltration plan.”

“No.” Dean flashed a shit-eating grin at Holloway. “When we were on the plane, Mike said you guys were brainstorming some ideas.”

Caine opened her tablet and pulled up a map of JPL. “You’re going in through the west access door by the testbed facilities. It’s not well-monitored, and it’ll get you close to the main buildings without crossing the mercs’ patrol zones. It’s also concealed by shrubbery, giving you an advantage.”

“This access door leads into a maintenance corridor behind the testbeds,” Holloway chimed in. “It’s hidden from most of the cameras, and you won’t run into many people down there. Once you’re in, move fast. Get eyes on those mercs, confirm if Stoker is there or not, and then report in. Once you get a good read on the situation, we’ll tell you how to proceed.”

“We’ve got a diversion lined up while you’re entering the facility,” Caine added. “We’re launching a fake air attack on the Space Flight Operations Facility to draw the mercs’ attention away from you.”

“So while they’re busy with that, I slip in undetected.”

“Exactly,” Caine said. “We’ve timed the fake assault with a power grid shutdown, giving you a three-minute window when security systems are blind.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Three minutes?” He rolled his eyes. “Good thing I kept up with my jogging routine.”

“After three minutes, the power goes back online throughout the facility. Hopefully, you’ll have entered the Hot Zone undetected or met by minimal resistance. From there, you’ll have to, well,” Caine’s face darkened, “sneak around, I guess. You’ll be on your own.”

“Sneak around.” Dean flashed a wry grin. “Sure thing.” He squinted. “And if the mercs do see me? What then?”

“Then you vanish,” Caine explained. “Fast and clean. Extraction’s already set. Same route—back through the same door, no trace.”

After running the plan through his mind, Dean gave a sharp nod, his expression hardening. “Okay. Let’s just hope the fake attack keeps them occupied long enough. Three minutes isn’t a lot of time, and if they catch on early, we’re all screwed.” His gaze flicked to the others, sizing them up one last time. “But if it works, I’ll be in before they have a chance to blink twice.”

Caine closed her tablet. “We should get you geared up and go over the plan in detail one more time. There’s⁠—”

A chorus of voices suddenly erupted behind them. Dean spun around, his eyes landing on a group of three men marching toward him. Two were burly, and one skinny guy hung back in the rear. A few of them looked like some sort of officials, their posture rigid and authoritative. The others—well, probably hired muscle.

“Sweet,” Dean whispered to Holloway. “The high rollers are here.”

7

The man Dean spotted at the front of the group was by far the oldest and heaviest. His military crew cut screamed 1990s Army standards, while his polo shirt, chinos, and Members Only jacket looked like they’d been pulled straight from a CIA how-to guide from the Reagan era.

“Is this him?” the burly man crooked a finger at Dean, his gaze fixed on Holloway. “This is Blackwood?”

“Dean Blackwood,” Dean greeted, offering his hand, “of the Pasadena Blackwoods.”

The lines in the burly man’s face twisted into a sneer. “Son of a bitch.” He examined Dean from head to toe. “So you’re the asshole Holloway’s been big-upping for the past few days. The same psycho son of a bitch who shot up Dodger Stadium a year ago.”

Dean withdrew his hand. “I guess so.” He ticked down his volume and leaned in close to Holloway’s ear. “Who’s this high-cholesterol motherfucker?”

“Dean,” Holloway said, gesturing to the burly man, “this is Leland Atkins. He’s the Field Operations Chief for the Special Activities Division.”

“Atkins.” Dean raised his eyebrows as he examined the man’s distended gut. “I’m not touching that one.”

Atkins took a step closer to Dean, his lip curled up. “I’m in no mood for sarcasm or games, hotshot. The only reason you’re here is because the odds of Holloway’s little plan working are so slim that you’ll probably be dead before you even have a chance to poke your head in the Hot Zone.” He flashed a wide set of bleached-white teeth. “And when that happens, I’ll be able to report back to Langley and happily notify them that a high-value target has finally been removed from the field.”

“Christ,” Dean groaned. “Did you binge-watch a slew of Steven Seagal movies before you got here, big man?”

Atkins raised his sausage-sized finger and poked it into Dean’s chest. “I’m gonna enjoy watching this little shitshow go tits up.” He nodded at Holloway. “And you, you fancy son of a bitch, will finally be relegated to a position befitting a man who provided cover for this fugitive cocksucker.”

Holloway puffed his chest. “You arrogant piece of shit.”

“Watch it!”

“I swear to God, Atkins⁠—”

Dean placed himself between the two men as they were in the throes of squaring off. “Everybody relax.” He patted Holloway on the back. “It’s not worth it.”

By that point, Special Agent Lillian Caine had taken a step back—not so much out of concern for a potential brawl between two alpha males but because after nearly a decade with the FBI, she had grown tired of men trying to outdo each other in every possible way.

“If you guys are finished slapping your dicks on the table,” she grumbled, “I’d like to get Agent Blackwood⁠—”

“Former,” Dean grumbled.

“Former Agent Blackwood ready for the operation.”

Atkins put his full attention on Caine, rubbernecking her like she had trespassed into a boy’s club. “Listen here, lady,” he groaned. “The only reason you’re here is so we can appease the FBI’s incessant demands to be kept in the loop on the operation. You’re an observer, nothing more.” He pressed his thumb into his own chest. “You answer to me. Understand?”

“Atkins.” Caine held her head high. “Go fuck yourself.”

Atkins’ eyes got wide. “What the hell did you say to me?”

“Go fuck yourself.” Caine repeated even louder. “Do you need me to repeat it again?”

Atkins clenched his fist. “You listen here, missy⁠—”

“No, you listen,” Caine shot, jabbing two fingers into his chest and walking him backward. “This whole hot-blooded Gene Kranz shout-over-everyone routine is as outdated as it is tiresome. You’ve been blowing hot air and storming through this place for the past few days playing the part of your own personal Stormin’ Norman, and all it’s done is alienate your team and push me to the brink of a migraine. You’re brash, arrogant, and downright foolish. Feel free to pass that along to your superiors.”

Dean glanced at Caine, resisting the strong urge to grin.

A red-faced Atkins turned to the man beside him, twenty years his junior and half his size. The scrawny man with a weasel-like face and matted shoulder-length hair cemented his gaze on the floor as he nervously picked at the sleeve of his grunge-era leather jacket.

“Yo,” Dean said, jerking his chin toward the thin man.

The man’s eyes twitched, flicking up at Dean before quickly returning them to the floor as though processing Dean with mechanical precision.

“You got a name?” Dean asked.

“Novak.” The thin man saluted and attempted his best smile. “Semper Fi.”

“Huh?”

Novak shuddered, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. “Sorry, I …” He took a step back, his voice faltering. “I know that’s what Army types say. Just trying to break the ice.” He chuckled nervously, the sound sharp and brittle, causing a few heads to turn. “You’ve probably figured out by now that I’m on the spectrum.” He shrugged, his gaze distant. “I’m not great at socializing, but I can design an autonomous spacecraft using nothing but a few microcontrollers, some conductive polymers, and a rocket-grade oxidizer—just to get the trajectory right.”

Dean smiled.

Holloway sighed.

Caine did a mix of both.

“Novak,” Dean said, crossing his arms. “I take it you’re Warren Novak—CEO of Sentinel Dynamics.”

“In name only.” Novak flicked his wrist several times like he was batting away a gnat. “I lost my seat on the board.” He made air quotes. “Too socially inept, the board said.” He guffawed sharply. “I engineered the predictive model that increased market share by 35 percent through multivariate regression analysis, built a data pipeline with a 99.99 percent uptime and sub-200ms latency, and optimized neural network architectures to outperform current models by 15 percent. I could design a quantum-safe encryption algorithm in forty-eight hours that would bypass the current protocols. When the systems inevitably collapse under their own weight, I’ll be here—designing the next iteration, acquiring their properties in Hawaii just to demolish them, and repurposing the land for additional data centers.”

Dean whistled. “Damn.” He looked at Holloway. “Please tell me this guy is on our side.”

Caine stepped in, taking the lead. “Novak is a former JPL employee. He’s also the one who configured the blackout protocol we’re about to initiate.”

With a wince, Novak held up a finger. “It was slightly more complicated than that. I had to⁠—”

“Novak,” Holloway said, nudging the man’s arm with a fist. “Technical lingo is lost on a man like Blackwood.” He hooked his arm around Dean’s shoulder. “His definition of progress piqued with PlayStation 2.”

“If there’s a problem,” Caine continued, “Novak is the man I’ll confer with while keeping in touch with Blackwood over comms. He knows JPL intimately. He’s also the only one who’s been able to exploit vulnerabilities in the mercs’ grid—backdoors, weak signal intercepts, the works.”

“Amateurs,” Novak remarked. “And I’m appalled at what these …” he gnashed his teeth, “religious fanatics have done to my former campus. I have several theories why they’re attacking the campus, which range from⁠—”

Holloway waved him off. “None of that is important right now, Novak. Our focus is to get Dean in there as quickly and quietly as possible.” He pointed to Novak. “Just make sure this blackout goes smoothly. That’s your job. Once Dean has eyes on the scene and can paint us a clear picture of what’s happening, we’ll consult with you.”

A sheepish Novak nodded and stepped away, mumbling to himself something incoherent. Atkins re-entered the conversation. “Prep your guy,” he grumbled to Holloway. “We’re T-minus thirty for the op.” He glared at Dean. “And you, shithead. If you fuck this up⁠—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dean cut in. “Your fat ass will sit on me until I scream uncle.”

After flashing his middle finger, Dean ripped his focus off Atkins and made a beeline to the locker room with Holloway.

“Well, bud,” Holloway said, gesturing to the array of gear on a bench. “What do you think?”

Dean stepped forward and appraised the equipment. A Colt M4A1 carbine was displayed proudly in the center, its SureFire SOCOM556-RC2 suppressor attached and a Trijicon ACOG 4x32 scope mounted on top. Three thirty-round magazines for the M4, loaded with 5.56 NATO rounds, were stacked next to it, alongside two seventeen-round magazines for the Glock 19 Gen5 outfitted with a suppressor, all filled with 9mm Luger.

Nearby, a Crye Precision JPC 2.0 Plate Carrier was loaded with modular pouches for spare mags, grenades, and a Gerber StrongArm multi-tool. The vest also had an integrated CamelBak Crux Reservoir for hydration with a cooling system built into the back. Mechanix M-Pact gloves sat beside it, their knuckles reinforced for impact resistance.

Beside the M4 were PVS-7 night vision goggles. The adjustable strap ensured a secure fit, perfect for tactical operations without the need for a helmet.

At the far end of the bench were 5.11 Tactical Stryke Pants offering mobility and durability with Teflon fabric protection for resisting dirt and water. Matching Tactical Research Khyber High-Gloss boots were beside them—rugged, durable, and built for long-distance movement.

The last items were Revision Military Batlskin Viper P4 knee and elbow guards and an Under Armour Tactical HeatGear compression shirt that regulated temperature and moisture, ideal for high-stress environments where staying cool is critical.

“All right,” Dean said approvingly as he stripped off his shirt and examined the frag and smoke grenades left for him as party favors. “Party time.”

8

Ten minutes later, Dean emerged from the locker room, dressed for war. The gymnasium fell silent as heads turned, tracking his every step. He moved with purpose, conducting a final check of his weapons as if the world were his battleground. Each motion was deliberate, confident, and calculated. A one-man army.

“Oh, laddie,” Woody said. “You look gooood.”

Not right now, man.

Dean slung his M4.

Last thing I need is you riding shotgun on this.

Dean and Holloway moved toward a roped-off section of the gym with makeshift cubicles—the mission’s overwatch center. Atkins, Caine, and Novak huddled around a cluster of computers. One screen displayed a live feed of the route Dean would take to get to his infiltration point. Caine turned her head to look at Dean. The look on her face was cryptic. Dean couldn’t sense if she was impressed or apathetic.

“Well, well,” Caine groaned. “That’s, uh …” she crossed her arms and tilted her head, “a look.”

Atkins raised his chin, quickly sized up Dean, and put his focus back on his computer. “You’re headed out in five,” he announced. He glanced at Caine. “Let’s run through the plays one more time.”

“Okay.” Caine angled toward the screens. “Dean, you’re going in from the west near one of the testbed facilities. The road you’ll take to get there is off the beaten path—barely wide enough for a maintenance truck. It’s unpaved with loose gravel and weeds growing up through the cracks, so you’ll have plenty of cover.”

Dean raised his hand. “Am I headed down this road on foot or am I getting a lift?”

“We’re giving you an unmarked cruiser from the FBI motor pool,” Caine explained. “You’ll use it to drive down the road, but once you’re within about 100 yards of the access point, you’ll ditch the car so sensors in that area won’t pick it up. We’ll place a small marker there.” She pointed to a map on one of the screens, the road highlighted in red. “On this road, you’ll wait for Novak to trigger the blackout, and the fake air attack on the Space Flight Operations Facility will begin. Once that happens, you’ve got three minutes to get the rest of the way up the road on foot and through the access point before the mercs’ systems go back online.”

Novak raised a hand, waiting for permission to speak, which Caine approved with a nod. “This service road runs parallel to the outer perimeter fence,” he said. “It’s hidden from the main campus. It’s not much, but it’s enough to stay off the mercenary’s radar.”

“Once you’re out of the cruiser, you’ll stay low,” Holloway chimed in, “hugging the fence as you move. Watch for your own shadows. There are a couple of buildings the mercs have turned into guard towers that cover the fence line, so stay out of their line of sight.”

“Once you get to the end of the road, you’ll be about 20 yards from the access door,” Caine said. “The road kind of dead-ends there, and there’s an overgrown patch of shrubbery and vines that’s been growing unchecked. The service door is tucked into the corner of a low concrete building, hidden behind the foliage. It’s a little beat up, but it’s solid, the kind of spot no one really checks unless they have to.”

Dean motioned to the screen. “So I’ll slip in through there?”

Caine nodded. “That’s the plan.”

“Once the blackout occurs and the fake air attacks starts,” Novak remarked, “that door will unlock, but once the blackout ends and the systems come back online, the door will automatically lock again. You’ll need to get through it before that happens.”

Holloway swung his focus around to Dean. “The road’s not heavily patrolled, but keep your eyes open. You’re close enough to some of the maintenance garages that someone could be monitoring the area. If you see any movement, drop to the ground and wait it out so no one spots you.”

Dean nodded.

“After you’re through the door,” Caine continued, “you’ll be in a narrow maintenance corridor that leads straight to the testbed facilities.”

Atkins grunted, signalling it was his time to speak. “If you’ve managed to make it in, and if you can find a way to keep yourself from getting killed, you’ll do a sweep of the entire campus. If possible, pick off the mercs one by one as you see them. If the area’s too hot, if you’re unable to inflict anything in the way of real damage to these fuckers,” he huffed, “and I’m betting that’s the most likely outcome here, you’ll simply get a read of the situation and report back to us.”

“If that’s the case,” Holloway said, “we’ll order you to head straight back out through the same access door. It’s only locked on the outside. You’ll head back down the same road you came in on, and someone will pick you up at the far end. Quick extraction, no frills.”

“All right.” Dean flexed his hands inside his gloves. “Sounds straightforward.”

Atkins rattled off a laugh. “Nothing straightforward about it, my friend.” He tapped his watch. “You’re on a timetable here. We’re giving you six hours max to get into the place, do what needs to be done, and get back out. But barring a miracle you might pull out of your ass, I have zero confidence you’ll be able to do anything to steer the course of the events in our favor inside that campus. That’s why, after your six-hour window, we’ll be launching a drone strike on the entire compound.” He flashed a crooked grin. “We’re going to fucking level it.”

Dean narrowed his eyes.

Holloway cursed under his breath.

Caine, her face tinted red, crooked a finger toward one of the screens. “Atkins,” she hissed. “Our spotters have clocked 200 JPL employees still inside the compound after the wave of hostages were let go. There are still innocent employees in there.”

A stone-faced Atkins shrugged. “Those same spotters also tallied somewhere between fifty and sixty of those employees who are now loyalists to these Templar lunatics. The way I see it, when we launch a strike, we’ll take out all these assholes—our main and only goal—and lose just a small fraction of the people they’re holding hostage.”

“For chrissakes, Atkins!” Holloway barked. “The whole point of this operation⁠—”

“My operation!” Atkins struck his fist against his chest. “I never wanted to give the green light to this,” he shot a heated gaze at Dean, “high-risk gamble Holloway and his band of nitwits at the Agency came up with. We can thank the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs for this bullshit op being given clearance. The only reason I’m on board with this is because if Blackwood’s taken out, we can stop wasting resources chasing him down. His death would clear him off my radar for good.”

Dean raised two fingers, a glorious smirk on his face. “I’m right here.”

A steely-faced Atkins walked over to Dean. He breathed deeply, his nose a half-inch from touching Dean’s. “You’re a fucking liability, you two-bit psycho. I know who you are. I spent the better part of last year watching Holloway allow you to slip through the Agency’s fingers. Rogue pricks like you are the reason ops go south, why good men get killed. If I had it my way, I would’ve put a kill order on you, tracked you down, and turned whatever rat’s nest you were posted up in the past year into a friggin’ parking lot.” Atkins pointed to the JPL campus on one of the screens. “What we should be doing, what we will be doing in six hours is demolishing that goddamn campus and ending this thing once and for all.”

Dean, his eyes unblinking, allowed his stare to bore through the field operations chief. “I’m well aware I’m not the cleanest of soldiers, Atkins. But I’ve worked with plenty of guys like you before. I know your type. You’re just a career man who gets a thrill watching airstrikes wipe out entire civilian populations.”

“Is that so?”

Dean gave a single nod, his gaze steady. “I might be rough around the edges, and I can understand how that might cause some problems. And believe me, I’ve had my fair share of them over the years.” He held up a finger. “But there is a big difference between men like you and men like me.” His nostrils flared. “I still know where the line is.”

Atkins’ lip twitched. “This is the part where you pound your chest and call yourself a decent American, huh?”

“No,” Dean grumbled. “I was going to say that I don’t have a badge, no allegiance to anyone right now. I was going to tell you I’m a fugitive with nothing left to lose. And because I have nothing to lose, that means I can do this.”

Dean snapped his head forward, driving it into Atkins’ nose. The sickening crack of bone broke the stillness. Atkins jolted back, crashing to the floor.

“Hell yeah,” Woody cheered. “That’s my boy.”

As Atkins struggled to his feet, a stream of curses poured from his mouth. Holloway attempted to help him stand, but he batted the attempt away.

“You’re dead, Blackwood,” Atkins grumbled, dabbing the blood seeping out of his nose. “If you manage to walk away from this, I swear to God I’m gonna put a bullet in your brain.”

A stone-faced Dean shrugged, asked anyone if they had gum or mints, and received a stick of Doublemint from Warren Novak.

“Un-fucking-believable.” Atkins shot his cuffs and headed toward the exit. “Get this asshole out of my sight.” He checked his watch. “You’ve got ten minutes before the blackout is triggered.” He pointed a finger at Dean. “You’d better pray you don’t make it back.”

Dean crossed himself, his demeanor a mix of resolve and frustration.

Holloway smirked, clearly enjoying the tension in the air.

Caine, staying aloof from the exchange, extended a pair of car keys toward Dean. “Here’s your ride,” she said, her tone clipped. “We should move.” She glanced at Novak. “We’re running out of time.”

9

Ethan Stoker stood at the window of Building 180, his gaze sweeping over the entire JPL campus. The sight of his men moving purposefully across the grounds brought him back to his late teen years, evoking memories of boot camp when everything had been so much simpler yet more intense. The disciplined motion of his team, their precision, and their focus struck a familiar chord in him like the rhythm of a drill he had once known well.

Almost finished.

Stoker checked the time on his watch—1800 hours.

If they’re going to make a move, it’s likely to happen soon.

The door behind Stoker groaned as it creaked open. From the distinct heel-to-toe shuffle of boots on the floor, he knew it was Captain Crisp.

“Good evening, Bishop,” Crisp greeted, standing at attention as he saluted.

Stoker nodded, returning the salute. “Stand easy, Captain.” He nodded toward the window, watching as members of the Alpha, Omega, and Beta squads patrolled the grounds of JPL. “And you can dispense with that Bishop crap when it’s just us. I can’t stand hearing it.”

“Understood, Major.” Crisp ran his hand across his buzz cut as he stood alongside his superior. “The men are getting squirelly out there. Now that we’re down to eighteen of us, I think the morale has taken a bit of a hit.”

“How are the rations?”

“Enough to tide us over for at least another week.” Crisp crossed his arms behind his back. “After that …” He shrugged.

“And the hostages?” Stoker said. “How are they faring?”

“They’re still corralled in 301,” Crisp explained. “Three men from unit Alpha are keeping a close eye on them as instructed.” He flashed a crooked smile. “They’re staying put. They’re scientists, after all. Once we showed them the building they were in was wired to blow in case anyone tried to evac, they remained compliant. We may need to feed them before too long though. It’s been twenty-four hours.”

Gazing down at his urban camo fatigues, Stoker sighed. He was perturbed that he was fifty years old and his body was no longer as responsive or finely tuned as it used to be. Gazing out at the JPL campus, he tamped down his urge to cringe. He had always imagined that his last mission, his final campaign, would be more illustrious than this, more honorable than the one he was currently engaged in. There was a time when Stoker had wanted to retire with full honors after leading the best of the best into the fray. But the unexpected twists life had thrown his way had prevented him from ending his career on the high note he’d always imagined.

“Captain,” Stoker said, his voice strained. “I’d like to address you as a friend in lieu of a subordinate officer.” He angled his body toward Crisp. “If that’s all right.”

Crisp nodded. “Yes, Major.” He relaxed his posture, snickering as he said the next words. “Speak freely.”

A few moments passed as Stoker paced the top floor of Building 180, the highest vantage point on the campus. He took a deep breath, his eyes briefly catching his reflection in the window. The sharp features of his youth had been worn by time—deep lines carved into his face, his skin weathered and rough. His jaw had softened, and graying hair framed his face in a wild, untamed way. He looked every bit the seasoned veteran—dangerous yet world-weary as if the years had never let him go.

“I don’t want to be here,” Stoker admitted. “I never did.” His gaze lingered on his ring finger where a wedding band had once been. “The only reason I agreed to this ... mission,” he thought of the man who had recruited him, wincing at the memory, “was to survive the rest of my life with something resembling a pension.”

A stone-faced Crisp said nothing, watching his commander dutifully.

“I spent ten years in Leavenworth, Captain.” Stoker squeezed his eyelids shut. “I languished in that goddamn cell for doing the right thing, for prioritizing the lives of my men over a terrorist.” He snapped open his eyes, pivoting his gaze to Crisp. “And what did I get for it?” He tapped his chest. “A pair of lungs riddled with cancer because of those burn pits the Army allowed us to be exposed to and a career flushed down the shitter.” He held up a finger. “All because of one man.” He balked at the name of the soldier racing through his mind. “One.”

Crisp held his head high, waiting for Stoker to continue.

“I apologize for my lapse in decorum, Captain.” Stoker removed the bottle of Modafinil from his pocket, placed two in his mouth, and dry-swallowed. “It’s unbecoming.”

“Major,” Crisp grumbled. “Permission to speak freely?”

Stoker nodded.

“All of us suffered because of what …” Crisp’s jaw tightened. He refrained from saying the name of the man who procured him a dishonorable discharge. “If that son of a bitch had just kept his mouth shut and played ball,” he motioned to the group of Templars outside the window guarding the grounds, “none of us would be here. We are owed this, Major, and if it’s any consolation, I do not regret a single decision we’ve made.”

The statement of solidarity gave Stoker a fleeting sense of relief. He took a step forward, eyes scanning his men outside, his Templars, as they policed the campus, vigilant and steady in their movements.

“I feel remorse for what I have put those men down there through,” Stoker said, “for what I am about to put them through.” He turned down his head. “They believe they are fighting for a cause, and it’s all a ruse to protect you, me, and the late Sergeant Kennefick.”

Hearing his Major, a man who had spent so many years languishing away in a cell for doing what had to be done, a seasoned veteran who claimed to have zero regrets until now, sent a chill up Crisp’s spine.

“Do not feel sympathy for these men, Major.” Crisp pointed to the window, his voice harsh. “We tracked down the dregs of the system. Had it not been for us, more than half of them would be dead or committing God only knows what type of deeds out there on the streets.” Crisp ogled the men on the ground, sneering. “They are savages, Major. Not a single one of them was worthy to be in uniform. They will die, and it will be for the greater good—our greater good.”

Stoker cut a sideways glance at Crisp. “Sometimes I worry that your anger and outrage over the premature termination of our careers outmatches mine, Captain.” He shot his chin toward the window. “Dogs or not, those men down there are still human beings.”

“Not the way I see it,” Crisp hissed. “Whatever parts that made those men human were either extracted long ago or were never there to begin with. Rubbing shoulders with them for the past several months has left a bad taste in my mouth.”

“We managed to persuade every one of them that they are killing in the name of a higher power.” Stoker shrugged. “Does that not bother you? Does it truly not vex you that we implanted a mind virus into every one of those soldiers down there?”

“It seems to bother you, Major.”

Stoker shrugged. “Facing my own mortality, knowing that it is imminent, has caused my mind to wander down avenues it hasn’t traveled in quite some time.”

Crisp shook his head. “Those men deserve to be in the ground, not walking among the living. Lying to them to partake in this cause so you and I can benefit from it is by far one of the most rewarding things I have ever experienced. They will die, and you and I will live and profit from what has happened here.” He stuck out his lower lip. “It’s poetic in its own right.”

Stoker huffed. “I still question my scruples at pulling such a stunt. We managed to convince those men that the mission they are undertaking is a righteous one. Christ, Captain.” He crossed his arms. “We lured them into thinking they are going to die so they can end up in Paradise, and not one of them is aware that they are committing these deeds simply so you and I will profit from them.”

“Again,” Crisp turned away from the window. “Fuck them. I apologize for my crass assessment and response here, but you asked as a friend.”

Stoker reached out and squeezed the Captain’s shoulder. “I appreciate your candor, Crisp. I always have.” He released his grip, letting his hand fall down to his side. “I only regret that I will not be able to spend more time with you once we are free and clear of this ordeal.” He conjured up the X-ray that had been taken six months before of the cancer in his lungs. “My time grows shorter by the minute.”

The color slipped from Crisp’s face. “Don’t say that. Our benefactor, the one pulling the strings, said he could help you⁠—”

“Our benefactor said what needed to be said so we were properly motivated to carry out this campaign of his. Even if this miracle drug somehow exists, it’s far too late for me.” Stoker laughed. “To be frank, Captain, while I do believe we’ll succeed in clearing the way for our benefactor’s plan, I highly doubt the second phase of this proposal will ever come to fruition.”

“Do you really think so?”

Stoker nodded. “The man is a fool. Brilliant, yes, but his arrogance far exceeds his talents.” He gestured to the campus outside the window. “The grounds here will be leveled before too long. There is no question about it. We’ve teed everything up for the CIA to begin the final phase of obliterating JPL. Our benefactor’s wish will have been granted, but I doubt he will have the ability to follow through with the next steps.” Stoker grinned. “I’m just thankful we were able to guarantee payment before we committed to the operation.” He cleared his throat, addressing Crisp now like an officer in lieu of a friend. “Speaking of that, we should anticipate another assault from the CIA shortly. They’ll most likely try to attempt one last SEAL or SWAT assault on us and the premises.”

“We should arrange the final stand then, Major,” Crisp suggested. “We need to arrange the men down there to stand fast so you and I can exfil out of here soon.”

“No,” Stoker shook his head. “We need to make sure the CIA is left with no other option than to lay waste to the entire facility. That is what the plan has been the entire time. If you and I exfil out of here prematurely, we may allow the next team that is sent in here to successfully terminate all compromises. If that happens, we’ll have handed back JPL to them on a silver platter.”

“We should still arrange a timeline, Major,” Crisp said. “We need to agree that you and I will evacuate the premises and move to the extraction point at a designated time and place, even if our plan to hold the grounds fails.”

Stoker held up his hand. “Just wait. If the CIA attempts anything else in the way of a rescue operation, it will be soon. When that happens, we will push them back just as we did before. As soon as that is successful, you and I will contact the benefactor and arrange for the final payment to be sent to our accounts. Once we’ve confirmed receipt of the payment and have cut the hostages loose,” Stoker winked, “you and I will be sitting on our own oasis enjoying the fruits of our labor.”

Crisp smiled.

Stoker nodded.

The satellite phone inside Crisp’s pocket trilled. “It’s him,” he said, “our man on the inside of the command center out there.” He narrowed his eyes as he read the secured message on the screen. “He said the CIA is about to launch an operation.”

“There you go.” Stoker pulled out his Glock and press-checked the rounds. “See if he can get us a tally on how many are coming and where they plan on coming in.”

“It’s one man.”

Stoker winced. “Repeat that for clarification, Captain.”

“One man is being sent in,” Crisp repeated, holding up the phone. “Our contact said they’re sending in one lone wolf to try to get a read on the situation inside the campus.”

Stoker couldn’t believe his ears. “My God,” he laughed. “They’ve lost it.” He holstered his weapon. “See if you can get an ID on who it is.”

“I already have.”

“Then who is it?”

A sheet-white Crisp stared daggers at his superior officer. “It’s Blackwood, Major. The CIA is sending in Dean fucking Blackwood to try to stop us.”

Stoker narrowed his eyes, his skin flushing with heat as the name of the man hit his ears—the man responsible for his dishonorable discharge and the ten long years he spent inside the walls of Leavenworth.

10

Dean’s boots crunched on the gravel as he approached the unmarked cruiser parked along the edge of the road. As he had been told, the narrow, uneven service road was bordered by thick shrubs and low-hanging branches, their dark silhouettes casting nefarious shadows in the faint moonlight. The path wound its way through the overgrowth, barely wide enough for a single vehicle, and the distant sound of rustling leaves echoed through the quiet. Caine and Holloway stood back and watched Dean. The night air was still, the only sound coming from the occasional rustle of wind and the distant clap of gunfire inside the JPL campus.

Dean briefly flicked his eyes over the roof of the cruiser and scanned the campus ahead of him. The dull glow of a distant fire flickered in the distance, competing with the deepening darkness. The campus loomed like a shaded fortress, its outlines nearly invisible as night approached. But the faint sound of shouting and chaos within was unmistakable.

Holloway kept his eyes locked on Dean, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. Caine stood with her arms crossed, offering no outward sign of emotion.

“You ready?” Holloway asked quietly, watching as Dean walked around to the left side of the car and opened the back door.

Dean shrugged. “Ready as I can be.” He loaded the M4 onto the back seat, glancing at Caine. “You got a map of this place, by the way?”

Caine nodded. “I printed a PDF of the campus map.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “If you get lost, just give it a gander.”

“I don’t need to take it with me.” Dean unfolded the paper, examined the map—an aerial view of the JPL campus marked with tags and legends—blinked twice, and stored a copy away in his memory before he handed the paper back to Caine. “Boom.”

“Neat trick.” Caine took back the map. “You ever think of trying your hand at cleaning out Vegas?”

“Let’s plan on a road trip after I wrap this shitshow up.” Dean faced Holloway. “Just be sure to keep me updated on this shitty little countdown that Atkins is running.”

“Here.” Holloway unfastened the band of his watch and handed it over. “Bring it back to me in one piece. My wife will raise hell if she finds out I lost it.”

With a grin, Dean accepted the watch and strapped it to his wrist. “You got it, bud. I’ll take good care of it.”

Caine’s gaze followed Dean as he climbed inside the cruiser, settling behind the steering wheel. “We’re five minutes out from the blackout.” She exhaled slowly, her eyes narrowing. “Drive down to the marker on the road and wait until you see the lights cut out on the campus. You’ll see the flashes and booms of our fake air attack, and then you are to run straight to the door that leads to the access tunnel. Be quick. You and I will keep in touch.”

Holloway gave a short sigh, his lips twitching slightly. “I’ll pass along any orders through Caine. Keep your communications to a minimum though. Your channel’s secure, but with these guys,” he gestured toward the campus, “there’s no telling. They’re sharp—maybe too sharp for their own good.”

“Copy that.” Dean pulled the sleek, military-grade earpiece from his pocket and slid it into his ear with practiced ease. The fit was seamless and snug. A faint click echoed in his ear as it powered up.

“Last thing,” Holloway said as he reached into his jacket. “Just in case you need it.”

Dean examined the sheathed Ka-Bar combat knife in Holloway’s hand. The seven-inch straight-edge blade was made from high-carbon steel, ideal for a variety of combat and utility tasks—the same blade he and Holloway had used back when they were in the Rangers.

“Thanks.” Dean stuffed the weapon into his vest. “Hopefully I won’t have to use it.”

Caine stepped in, her focus still on the cruiser as Dean started the engine. “All right.” She turned her attention to the road ahead. “It’s time.”

Dean fist-bumped Holloway.

Shook hands with Caine.

Moments later, Holloway and Caine turned around and disappeared down the road they had come in on, leaving Dean with only his thoughts.

“You ready, laddie?” Woody asked.

No.

“Probably the highest stakes case we’ve ever⁠—”

I know, fucker. You didn’t need to say it out loud.

“I’m just nervous.”

You’re nervous?

“I mean, yeah.” Woody laughed. “If you die, I die. We’re kind of a package deal.”

Dean shook his head as he secured a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. “You’ve got this,” he whispered to himself. “Easy in, easy out. Just get eyes on what’s happening. Take as many of them out as you can.” He breathed deeply. “Don’t. Get. Dead.”

The low growl of the engine vibrated the car’s frame. Dean’s finger tapped a steady rhythm on the steering wheel. He fixed his eyes on the road ahead. For a moment, his mind wandered—thoughts of freedom, the slim chance of seeing his family again, making it out alive.

“Okay, Dean,” Caine’s voice crackled through his earpiece. “We’re two minutes from blackout.”

“We need a code name or something,” Dean replied. “I don’t want to risk any of the mercs inside picking up on our transmissions. If they catch my name, that might be a problem.”

“Okay,” Caine huffed. “Pick one.”

Dean mulled it over, landed on a name, and smiled smugly. “Let’s go with Cabbie.”

“Cabbie?”

“Inside joke, I guess. This whole thing reminds me of a movie I saw back in the day.”

“Sure thing, Cabbie.” Caine clacked her fingers on a keyboard in the background. “We’re sixty seconds out. Soon as you see the lights go out, gun it.”

“Copy that.”

“Stand by.”

A sweat-glazed Dean ticked down the time in his head, waiting for the green light. The seconds that passed felt like minutes, as if the world around him had slowed to a creep.

“Thirty seconds,” Caine counted.

Get ready.

“Twenty-five.”

Dean spaced his hands at ten and two on the wheel.

“Twenty.”

Here we go.

“Fifteen.”

No turning back.

“Ten.”

Dean swallowed hard.

“Five.”

His right foot stayed on the brake pedal. Then all the lights on the JPL campus cut to black. Rocket-like streaks of screaming light flew over one of the buildings, followed by a few loud rumbles that resembled explosives. It was the CIA’s fake air attack to distract the Templars.

“Go!”

11

Dean threw the gear shift into drive and pushed his foot down on the accelerator. The cruiser bounced over the rough road, tires skipping across loose gravel.

Slow.

Smoothe.

Easy.

Dean tightened his grip on the wheel, his eyes scanning the narrow path ahead, lit only by a half moon in the sky. It was too dangerous to use headlights. The road was barely wide enough for the vehicle, each turn threatening to send him veering off course. Unpaved, uneven, a stretch of forgotten land between the wilderness and JPL’s high-tech campus. The night air was cool and dry. It smelled of dust and sagebrush.

“Two minutes and twenty seconds left, Cabbie,” Caine said. “Move fast.”

Dean slowed the car as the bend with the shiny marker came into view. The road ahead was narrow, flanked by overgrown shrubs and a high perimeter fence, the occasional rusted sign standing like a warning from a time when this area was active. His pulse was steady, but his mind was sharp, calculating the next move.

Almost there.

Keep going.

Dean pulled off the road, steering the cruiser into the shadow of a low hill.

You’re here.

Bail out.

Dean killed the engine, exhaled deeply, and checked the watch on loan from Holloway.

Two minutes.

Time to move.

He stepped out of the car, boots crunching on the gravel as he retrieved his M4 from the back seat. The faint shadows of the JPL campus were in sight—still far away but close enough to feel it.

Dean adjusted his M4, moving quickly and hugging the perimeter fence. The shadows were his cover. He stayed low, every step deliberate.

Hustle, Deano.

Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast.

Dean was approaching a JPL building. He was too close for comfort but still hidden by the thick brush and trees. He kept his pace steady, never breaking stride. He reached the end of the road—just 20 yards from the corner of a low concrete building. The service door was there, just beyond a patch of overgrown shrubs. Hidden and tucked away, its faded steel frame was barely visible in the darkness.

Dean paused.

Waited.

His breath steady and quiet.

He quickly glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one had followed him. The coast was clear, and he stepped forward, moving past the foliage toward the door. He crouched low, his boots scraping the ground. He touched the door. The surface was cold.

Old.

Rusted.

Metal.

Solid.

He reached up and grabbed the stiff, worn handle that was thick with grime. With a few quick tugs, it opened.

“Cabbie,” Caine whispered. “Are you in?”

Dean eased the door open, the metal groaning in protest. The air inside was cool and stale with the pungent smell of dust and forgotten things. He stepped through the pitch black narrow area, moving quickly, staying low. Knowing he couldn’t offer Caine a verbal reply, he keyed his transmitter and sent out a morse code signal—I am inside.

The tunnel was narrow, barely wide enough for him to squeeze through with his gear. The walls were concrete, cracked in places, jagged edges now catching the dim light from a tiny flashlight he had just turned on. The floor was uneven, covered in a thin layer of grit and dirt that crushed underfoot. The space made Dean feel claustrophobic. It probably hadn’t seen a living soul in years.

His footsteps echoed off the walls, dull thuds in the silence. No sounds came from above. The tunnel stretched on, winding slightly to the left. It felt like the world outside had forgotten about this place.

These fuckers have to have motion detection gear in here somewhere.

A quick sweep of the tunnel showed that nothing was out of place. Aside from some cracks in the infrastructure with a few weeds peeking through, there was nothing foreign or out of the place.

“No motion gear, laddie,” Woody whispered. “It’s almost like they’re encouraging someone to come through here.”

Yeah. But normally the door’s locked. And who even knows about it?

Dean adjusted the strap on his M4.

Fucking weird.

Dean’s fingers brushed the wall, keeping his balance, keeping his focus. Each step forward was a careful calculation, every move deliberate. There was no room for mistakes. The tunnel felt like a tomb—silent, hidden, and dangerous.

The end of the tunnel came into view. He spotted a grated vent in the ceiling. In front of him was a steel door, identical to the one he had just passed through.

Another obstacle.

Another hurdle.

Dean stopped and took a moment to listen.

No voices.

No footsteps.

Just me and the tunnel.

“Cabbie,” Caine radioed in. “You’re a minute thirty from the blackout window closing.”

Dean tapped out a quick Morse code signal into his transmitter—copy that—and then grabbed the handle of the steel door and pushed it down.

12

Dean emerged into the cold, metallic air of a JPL building. He made his way down a hallway, the sound of his boots soft and muffled as though the place were asleep.

I’m in, Dean tapped into his transmitter. Stand by.

He opened another door and stepped outside onto the sprawling JPL campus—an expanse of concrete, steel, dirt test fields, and asphalt roads snaking through the grounds. To his right was a group of several buildings. Some were squat, low, utilitarian, while others rose high, their modern facades sleek and cold. The buildings were dark now, faintly lit only by the moon. The shadows made the place feel hollow, abandoned.

“Spooky,” Woody said. “Very post-apocalyptic.”

A few of the buildings, particularly those on the far end, showed signs of damage—blackened walls, shattered windows, scorched metal doors hanging loosely on their hinges. A faint trail of smoke still curled upward from one of the structures, the air thick with the bitter scent of burning plastic and electronics. The remnants of small fires flickered, sending brief, erratic bursts of light across the otherwise dim landscape.

To his left, a maze of nondescript buildings—maintenance rooms, storage units, and control centers—stood silent, their walls pocked with bullet holes and scorch marks. They loomed like forgotten fortresses, the hum of cutting-edge technology long gone. The entire campus had been a cold, mechanical place designed for efficiency in the present and for innovative visionary feats in the future. But now it was a war zone—no flourishes, no discoveries, no inventions—just a very broken machine gutted by conflict.

Ahead, Dean eyed JPL’s nerve center, the three-story, square building dubbed the Space Flight Operations Facility. At its base, the wide open expanse of concrete stretched before him, flanked by even more low buildings and access roads that cut through the campus like veins. The roads were empty except for one guard in a golf cart that shuttled past but didn’t see him.

Dean kept low, staying close to the buildings, but he still felt exposed like a bug under a magnifying glass. His eyes darted from side to side, taking in every exit, every building, every line of sight.

There were guard towers on the edges of the campus—former buildings that had been repurposed. The tall, narrow structure of Building 179 was now one of those guard towers. Once a maintenance facility, now it loomed above the campus like an eye in the dark, its windows replaced with cameras and surveillance gear. The old rooftop of Building 302 near the eastern perimeter was now reinforced with a steel framework, housing additional surveillance equipment. These structures were once part of the everyday machinery of JPL, but now they were more—built to keep people out, not to build rockets and rovers.

Ahead, Dean could make out the long rows of research labs, darkened now but in their prime filled with engineers, scientists, and technicians—people who made history with every launch, every mission. The campus still felt alive with their work, even though it was silent tonight.

“Cabbie,” Caine called in. “Lights are going back on in three … two … one.”

One by one, lights began flickering on as Dean dashed toward Building 318. He located some shrubbery and hid behind it, waiting as he heard radio chatter cut through the air about fifty yards to the east.

Patrols.

Sentries.

Stay low.

“A little reminder from Holloway,” Caine’s voice trilled in Dean’s earpiece. “He said to be careful who you put down. If one man fails to check in, you might risk having multiple tangos descend on your location.”

Thanks, Hollow.

Not like it hadn’t already crossed my mind or anything.

The approaching bootsteps grew louder as Dean waited in the brush. He slid onto his side behind a bush, his rifle at the low and ready. His right hand gripped the M4’s stock, his left on the handguard. Dean kept still, his breathing shallow, his eyes fixed on the approaching sentries. Finger outside the trigger guard, he waited for the right moment to engage.

Two of them.

Dressed in urban camo fatigues.

Sweeping the grounds.

Grunts.

He caressed the trigger guard, watching as the sentries inched closer.

“Alpha leader,” the trooper on the right spoke into his radio. “This is Alpha Two and Three.”

The radio in the trooper’s hand crackled. “Go ahead, Alpha Two and Three.”

“We’re headed south down Surveyor Road.” The trooper checked his corners. His partner did the same. “No visual.”

“Continue your sweep.”

“Copy that.”

Dean lined up the center mass of the man on the right between his sights—one swift pull of the trigger and he’d become a memory.

Wait.

Not yet.

They might walk right past you.

The radio in the trooper’s hand buzzed to life: “Alpha Two, come in.”

The soldier on Dean’s left terminated his stride. “Alpha Two reporting.”

“Double back to 301, Alpha Two. Assist Betas One, Two, and Three with hostage detail. Alpha Three, report.”

The soldier on Dean’s left keyed his radio. “Alpha Three—go ahead.”

“Continue your sweep to the west,” Alpha leader instructed. “Do a full perimeter search until you link up with Omega Three at Building 249.”

With a pep in their step, Alphas Two and Three broke apart. Alpha Two headed back to the north, while Three continued to the south. He remained on a straight trajectory toward Dean’s position, his eyes skimming the terrain with a high level of scrutiny.

He’s getting too close.

Dean lowered his M4 slowly and retrieved the Glock outfitted with a suppressor from his hip holster.

Shit, I’m gonna have to take this dude out.

With each step, Alpha Three drew closer, the sound of his boots barely audible on the soft earth. Dean’s pulse quickened, but his hands remained stable. He steadied his breath, the air thick with tension. Alpha Three’s silhouette loomed in the half-light, unaware of the danger just feet away.

Dean’s grip tightened on his Glock, his finger resting lightly outside the trigger guard. His focus narrowed to the target, adjusting his stance, making sure every muscle in his body was primed for the next move. The suppressor on the Glock would keep the shot silent, but the impact had to be precise.

Ten feet from Dean, Alpha Three paused, scanning the brush with a practiced, cautious sweep. Dean’s heart skipped a beat as the man’s gaze seemed to fall just shy of his position. He couldn’t afford any mistakes.

All right.

In one swift motion, Dean brought the Glock up, sighted on the side of Alpha Three’s head, and depressed the trigger.

Now.

The sound of the suppressed shot was a soft thump, muffled by the suppressor. Alpha Three’s body jerked violently as a single bullet thwacked him in the head. He collapsed—dead before he hit the ground.

Dean remained still for a moment, his eyes flicking toward the movement of Alpha Two in the distance, but the coast was clear for now. He slowly lowered the Glock and slipped it back into his holster. He grabbed Alpha Three by his boots and pulled him behind the bushes. Then Dean melted into the shadows, already focused on the next step of the mission.

“This is Cabbie,” Dean whispered as he toggled the transmitter on his vest. “One Templar down.”

“Copy,” Caine hissed. “Were you spotted?”

“Negative.”

Dean crouched next to Alpha Three, quickly unzipping the dead man’s flak jacket. He retrieved two spare magazines and stashed them into his vest. Next, he unclipped the radio from the trooper’s chest, checking it briefly. An additional sweep of the body revealed a tactical knife, which Dean discarded.

“Okay,” Dean whispered, examining the radio. “Who’s calling the shots?”

“Cabbie,” Caine called out. “Talk to me.”

Dean covered the dead trooper’s body with some more brush and then moved to the right toward another cluster of buildings. “I took a radio off the guy I just dropped. It should give me a direct line to whoever’s in charge here.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m on the east side of the campus.” Dean skimmed the massive parking structure ahead of him. “I see a parking garage.”

“You must be on Surveyor Road,” Caine exclaimed. “I’ve been instructed by Atkins to see if you can get a read on where the hostages are.”

Dean nodded. “I’ll have to stick to the outside perimeter for now. I already killed one guy. It’s only a matter of time until these guys clue in on the fact that he’s gone and I’m here.”

“Can you, I don’t know, distract them from that?”

“Listen, I—” Dean smirked, the plan clicking into place. “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll clear the area first and then start looking for intel on the hostages. Once I find a high-ground position to get eyes on the layout, I’ll send you a sitrep.”

“Copy that. Holloway said to break a leg.” Caine laughed. “Atkins expressed something a bit more off-color, so I’ll refrain from relaying that one to you.”

Dean rolled his eyes as he headed in a straight line toward a parking structure. “Tell Atkins I love him.”

13

Asteel-faced Stoker stood cross-armed in front of the window of Building 180, certain that Dean Blackwood was out there somewhere.

“He’s gotta be here,” Stoker said to Crisp. “I can feel it.” He motioned over his shoulder. “Did the men remove the motion detection equipment from the access point on the south?”

“Yes, sir.” Crisp nodded. “They removed it just before the blackout occurred.”

“Good.” Stoker smirked. “If Blackwood is coming from anywhere, it’ll be from that direction. That’s why I told you to cut Alpha Three loose. If Blackwood’s coming in through that access point, then he’s headed right toward him.”

“You think Blackwood’s up to the task? We have no clue how well the guy operates anymore. Last I heard, he mustered out after folding his knee back ninety degrees in the wrong direction.”

“Blackwood can take out a man on his own.” Stoker flexed his brow. “Hell, I taught the son of a bitch how to do it. We probably flushed Alpha Three right to him. Blackwood will take him out and retrieve his radio shortly after he dispatches him, if he hasn’t already.”

The thought of sending Alpha Three—one of their own men—deliberately into harm’s way, despite a lack of affinity for any of the Templars, left Crisp uneasy. In any operation, having the greatest number of operatives mattered most. Losing Alpha Three, shaving off even one man from the total tally, wasn’t ideal. But it was necessary.

“If Blackwood does take out Alpha Three like you assume he will,” Crisp said, “what then?”

Stoker held up his radio. “We’ll put a call out here shortly to confirm if Blackwood is here or not. If he is, then the play is simple.” He puffed his chest. “We order Blackwood to turn himself over or we start killing hostages.”

Crisp swallowed hard. “You made it a specific mandate not to kill the hostages, Major.” He refrained from reciting the speech Stoker had given about him, Crisp, and Kennefick “spilling their fair share” of innocent blood in the past, which, in his twisted view, meant they needed to spill no more.

“Blackwood being here changes everything.” A cold chill snaked up Stoker’s spine. His desire to terminate the man who destroyed his life now took precedence. “Order the men watching the hostages to pluck one from the lineup, just to get ready.”

As Crisp issued the order over the radio, Stoker moved toward the window. He knew Blackwood was out there somewhere. It was as if the mere presence of the man stirred an acrid stench in the air, one that seemed to grow more potent with each passing minute.

“Where are you, you son of a bitch?” Stoker hissed. “Show yourself.”

Thoughts of Major Ethan Stoker were at the forefront of Dean’s mind as he entered the parking structure.

Is it really him?

Does he still remember?

Dean moved cautiously into the darkened five-story structure, his eyes sweeping across the empty concrete. He found no immediate signs of a threat—no movement, no noise. Just the quiet hum of distant machinery and the heavy silence that filled the building.

Of course he does.

You ruined that son of a bitch’s career.

Dean worked his way to a stairwell as he toggled his radio transmitter. As far as he could tell, no motion detection equipment had been set up in this structure.

“This is Cabbie,” Dean said as he entered the stairwell. “I’m at the parking structure. I’m headed to the top level.”

“How are things looking?”

“Quiet.” Dean held his M4 in a low, ready position as he ascended the stairs in tactical formation. His back was against the wall, scanning each landing before moving up, constantly aware of potential threats above and below. “Too quiet.”

“Any tangos?”

Dean reached the landing that led to the third floor, weapon ready, eyes scanning the dimly lit area as he moved cautiously forward. “If there are any mercs here, they’re probably posted up on the roof. My guess is they’ve got snipers at each of the four corners of the campus.”

“Copy that,” Caine replied. “Let me know what you find.”

Dean rounded the stairwell, kept climbing, and finally arrived at the door that led to the roof. As he approached and reached out to palm the handle, he stopped when he spotted a sleek, matte-black PIR motion detector mounted near the door.

“Fuck.”

“Say again, Cabbie?”

Dean examined the unit thoroughly from a distance—small lenses with a blinking red LED that indicated it was active and ready to trigger an alarm at the slightest movement.

“I’ve got something here,” Dean spoke, his radio transmitter toggled on. “Motion detector.”

“Can you bypass it?”

“I don’t know.” Dean gazed down at his vest. “Any chance you guys put a little tool kit on this rig?”

“Wait.” Caine took a beat. “Yeah, it should be on your vest.”

Feeling around his belt, Dean quickly located a compact tool kit with a multi-tool, mini screwdrivers, insulated tweezers, and a small circuit tester—perfect for disabling the motion sensor.

“Use the tools to bypass the wiring,” Caine instructed. “You need to make sure the alarm doesn’t get triggered.”

“No shit.” Dean slung his rifle and knelt down below the device. “Look, I’m a bit out of the loop here on disabling equipment like this, so I might need a tutorial. Pass me off to Holloway, please.”

A moment later, Holloway came on the line. “We’re breaking protocol here, buddy.”

“Fuck protocol.” Dean squinted at the motion detector, staying underneath it and as far to the left as he could. “I need you to help me bypass this sucker. I haven’t done anything like this in a long time.”

“What’s it look like?”

“Custom for sure.” Every component of the device appeared foreign to Dean. “These guys jerry-rigged this thing well. It’s like the Frankenstein of motion detectors.”

“Frankenstein was the doctor,” Holloway clarified. “The thing was called the creature or the demon. A lot of people make that mistake.”

“Okay, English lit.” Dean threw up his hands, unsure if he could disable it or not. “Just tell me what to do.” He eyed the door to the roof. “And be quick about it. I’m worried someone might poke their head in here before too long.”

As if on cue, the door to the rooftop swung open, missing Dean by only a few inches.

Dean’s gaze snapped upward.

He locked eyes with a merc standing in the doorway.

Both men froze, their faces mirroring shock as they stared at each other, the moment hanging thick with tension.

“Yo,” Dean mumbled to the merc. “What up, playboy?”

The merc gritted his teeth, raising his M4 in a swift motion.

Dean sprang to his feet, adrenaline spiking.

Without hesitation, both of them charged.

14

“Fuck,” Dean growled, throwing his shoulder into the merc’s chest and shoving him back, sending both their rifles clattering to the floor with metallic thuds.

The merc quickly drew his sidearm, a SIG P228 that flared with a deafening snap, but Dean was already moving. He cleared his Glock holster with practiced speed, raised the gun, and fired two shots in rapid succession.

The first shot grazed the merc’s side.

The second missed entirely as the man dove into cover through the doorway that opened up to the roof.

The air stung with the acrid scent of burnt powder, Dean gasping for breath as he dashed through the same doorway and stepped out onto the roof.

Go.

Move.

Charge.

Dean lunged forward, moving onto the roof just as the merc reappeared with his SIG at the ready. The two collided, slamming into the metal railing that dug into Dean’s side. Pain shot through his ribs. The merc knocked Dean’s Glock from his grip as Dean’s fist simultaneously cracked into the merc’s jaw. The man grunted, stumbling backward, but it didn’t stop him.

A brutal elbow shot into Dean’s stomach and sent him reeling, the wind knocked out of him. The merc moved in, teeth bared, fury in his eyes as he grabbed his SIG and swung it up.

Dean seized the merc’s wrist and twisted it, turning the SIG outward as the merc squeezed off a shot. Dean chopped his hand down onto the merc’s wrist, clearing the SIG from the merc’s grip and knocking it over the railing.

Dean barely had time to catch himself before the man swung a vicious right hook that nearly sent him over the rail. Dean ducked just in time, but the merc was relentless, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him into the wall. Dean felt the sharp sting of impact jolt through his body, but his instincts kicked in. He brought his knee up hard, catching the merc in the gut. The man grunted, staggering backward.

Dean didn’t wait for him to recover. He drove forward, closing the gap and slamming the merc’s head into the railing. The sickening sound of bone meeting metal rang through the area.

Dean was on top of the merc in a flash, pulling his arm behind his back and pinning him. His forearm was pushing hard against the back of the merc’s neck, choking him against the floor. The merc’s legs kicked wildly, his boots connecting with Dean’s legs and back.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean grumbled, grinding his forearm harder into the merc’s neck.

The merc gurgled in response, trying to break free, but Dean kept his hold. He could feel the pulse of life slowing, the air fighting to get into the merc’s lungs.

Just as it seemed the fight might end, the merc jerked violently, throwing his elbow back into Dean’s gut with all his remaining strength. The force took the breath out of Dean, leaving him gasping for air.

The merc twisted out of the hold with a growl, pushing Dean away with a final burst of strength. Dean stumbled backward, a searing pain radiating from his ribs as he caught himself against the wall. He didn’t have much time to recover before the merc was on him, swinging wildly.

Dean wasn’t quick enough. The merc landed a brutal punch to his nose, the sickening crack echoing in his ears. Blood splattered across the floor, but the merc didn’t let up. He delivered another blow to Dean’s jaw, causing his vision to spin.

With a grunt, Dean shifted his torso and swept the merc’s legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor. The merc’s head bounced off the concrete, leaving him dazed. Dean didn’t hesitate. He moved fast, straddling the merc’s chest and raining down a flurry of punches, each hit landing with bone-crushing force.

Blood mixed with sweat stung Dean’s eyes as he slammed his fist into the merc’s face over and over again. His knuckles cracked with each impact, but he didn’t think about the pain.

“End it, laddie!” Woody shouted. “Do it now!”

Finally, the merc’s movements slowed down. His arms went limp. His face was a swollen mess of blood and bruises.

Dean paused for a moment, chest heaving, his breath ragged. The rooftop was quiet now. All he could hear was the muffled sound of his heart thumping in his chest.

Dean stood up and wiped his bloody hands on the merc’s clothes, his eyes scanning the rooftop and the stairwell below for any more threats. His pulse was still racing, but he knew he couldn’t relax.

“All right,” Dean said, slowing his breathing as he located his Glock and pointed it at the merc’s head. “Are we done?”

The merc rattled off a laugh through crimson-stained teeth. He relaxed fully on his back, staring up at Dean as he struggled to pull air into his lungs. Blood trickled from the cuts on his lip, and his eyes flickered with a mix of defiance and surprise. “All glory to the New Father,” he whispered. “Praise be to him.”

“The New who?”

“Blessed this day will be.” The merc closed his eyes. “All sacrifices made will benefit⁠—”

With a swift flick of his wrist, Dean pistol-whipped the merc in the face. “Enough with the Baptist preacher shtick.” Dean got down on one knee and slapped the merc on his face, stirring him out of his daze. “Give me a head count of the men you’ve got on this campus. How many of you are there?”

The merc shook his head. “To the glory of the New Father.” He widened his eyes. He probed his back molars with his tongue. “Let my death be in his honor.”

“Oh, shit,” Dean mumbled, knowing full well what the merc was about to do. “Shit. Shit. Shit!”

Dean’s heart pounded in his chest as he reached down and pried open the merc’s mouth. The man’s eyes were wide, filled with panic and defiance.

Dean could see the cold, brittle edge of the cyanide capsule near the back of the merc’s mouth.

15

The merc had already bitten down on the capsule, and Dean knew it was now a lost cause. The effects of the cyanide took mere seconds to set in before the merc gurgled and wheezed. A foamy substance pooled in his mouth. His body convulsed before his eyes rolled back in his head. Then the merc’s body slackened and went limp.

“Damn.” Dean stood up, stood back, and wiped his hands on his pants.

“Cabbie,” Caine called out over the airwaves. “Sitrep.”

Once Dean collected his M4 on the other side of the door, he keyed his radio and leaned back against the wall. “Another merc down,” he reported.

“You’re really stacking up the body count.”

“I didn’t kill this one.” Dean shot a look over at the body. “This one had a cyanide capsule in his mouth.”

“Cyanide?”

“Yeah, cyanide.” Dean huffed. “As in the second you take it, it’s sayonara, sucker.”

“Grim,” Caine said. “And not all that clever.”

“One-liners were never my strong suit.”

“I can tell.” Caine snickered. “Did the merc say anything? What happened right before he died?”

Dean got down on one knee and shrugged. “The same religious gobbledygook these weirdos have a proclivity for.” He squinted. “It’s odd. When Holloway and I were looking at the video they sent, it’s almost like …” His voice trailed.

“Like what?”

“Like they’re reading from some kind of shitty script or something. It’s strange. It doesn't make any sense.” Dean narrowed his eyes. “Put Holloway on for me.”

“Only you and I are supposed to⁠—”

“Please, Caine.” Dean got up and walked away from the wall. “Put Holloway on for me.”

After a beat, Holloway came over the line. “Talk to me, Goose.”

“I’m concerned.”

“Well, considering the situation you’re currently in, you have cause for it.”

“I’m thinking about Stoker,” Dean said. “About this whole religious angle. It almost feels like, I don’t know, like it’s a cover for something.”

“A cover for what?”

“That’s what I need you to figure out. I need you to look deep into Stoker, Crisp, and Kennefick’s records after they were sent to prison. Find out who they rubbed shoulders with while they were serving time. See if there’s any legitimacy to this whole religious fanatic business that’s going on.” Dean squinted. “We’re missing something here, buddy. There’s something suspicious about this whole thing, and I wanna know what it is.”

“Give me a little time,” Holloway said. “I can work those angles on my end, but it’s going to take a minute. In the meantime, try to get your eyes on those hostages.”

Dean nodded. “Will do.” He checked the time on the watch Holloway loaned him—fifteen minutes past 6:00 p.m. “Caine, are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“What’s our time frame look like on this major air strike Atkins is threatening to carry out?”

“Five hours and forty minutes until Atkins launches the strike.”

“Damn it.” Dean gnashed his teeth. “If I make it out of here, I’m going to kick Atkins square in the nuts.”

The radio Dean had confiscated from the first merc he killed, now clipped to his vest, spat to life, the static sharp and jarring in the stillness. Seconds later, Major Ethan Emanuel Stoker’s voice cut through the line

“Corporal Blackwood,” Stoker grumbled. “Come in, please.” He huffed. “I know you’re there, son.”

Dean shuddered the second he heard the voice, one he hadn’t heard in quite some time. It was like a cold wind had brushed over him, and for a moment, he was back there—under Stoker’s command, feeling the strength of the man’s every order, every threat.

“It’s him,” Dean mumbled to Caine. “Stoker’s calling me over the radio of the merc I killed.”

“Jesus.” Caine took a beat. “See what he wants. I’ll inform Atkins.”

Dean’s hands tightened around the radio, the cold steel of the receiver biting into his palm. It had been years since he’d heard that voice, an entire lifetime since the nightmare of Stoker murdering innocent people, but here he was again, crawling its way back into Dean’s head like a rat gnawing away at his brain.

“Come in, Corporal,” Stoker called out. “I know you’re there.”

Dean gripped the radio tighter, trying to steady himself.

Talk to him.

Relax.

You’re in control of the situation.

Dean keyed the radio. “Major,” he finally said, his voice hoarse. “What’s going on?”

“Not much.” Stoker chuckled over the airwaves, low and menacing. “What’s up with you?”

“Not much.”

“Hanging in there?”

“Yes, sir.” Don’t call him that. He doesn’t deserve it. “Never thought we’d link up again, especially under these circumstances.”

Stoker huffed. “Life does have an odd way of coming full circle, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Dean briefly thought about the number of high-stakes cases that had plagued his life in the past few years. “I think about that more often than not.” He smirked. “Sorry about Kennefick, by the way. That little shitwit ratted you out after the SEALs launched their attack against you and your men.”

“Ah.” Stoker clicked his teeth, a sharp sound of realization. “Figured he’d fold under the pressure. That’s why the CIA sent you in, right?”

“Among other reasons.”

“Corporal Blackwood.” Stoker chuckled. “The man of many talents. Should’ve known you’d worm your way back around to me one day.”

Dean tamped down his urge to chew Stoker out. “Figured you’d still be rotting away in Leavenworth. Must’ve been a hell of a time for you inside there. Plenty of chances to think about the shit you pulled.” He thought of a dig and went with it. “You still keep in touch with your family? Your wife? Your son?”

“Do you?” Stoker asked. “The speed you operate at, I’m surprised you could have a pet, let alone a wife.”

Dean took a beat, Stoker’s words hitting him hard. “They’re maintaining their distance. And yeah, I had a dog, but he’s with my ex now.” I miss that little guy.

“My condolences,” Stoker said, his tone hard. “I get where you’re coming from. But let’s be clear—you had the luxury of making decisions that kept things at arm’s length. Me? I had my family stripped away because of the calls I had to make in the heat of combat. Sometimes you do what’s necessary, and it costs you.”

“Get fucked, Stoker,” Dean hissed. “You ended up in Leavenworth⁠—”

“Because of you.”

“Because you,” Dean insisted, “went full-fledged psycho on everyone. You killed innocent people, Major. Don’t make this out to be something it’s not.” Dean felt a familiar and sickly anger swell up inside of him.

“Son,” Stoker said, his voice firm, “I made the calls I had to make during a time when tough decisions were part of the job. You wouldn’t understand that. You’ve never been in a commander’s seat. Sometimes you have to make hard choices. The mission comes first, and the ends justify the means.”

“You spent years in a cell telling yourself that in front of a mirror, didn’t you? You’re saying all this to convince yourself, not me.”

“You’ll never understand the true cost of patriotism, Corporal. You never did. From day one, I knew you were too weak to⁠—”

“Enough,” Dean snapped. “What’s the real play here, Major? What’s your endgame? This sure as hell isn’t about some kind of …” he thought of a way to put it, “religious crusade.” Dean took a moment. He forced himself to sound calm, even though his heart pounded. “What the hell is this really about, Stoker? Why are you doing this?”

“You know exactly what this is about,” Stoker’s voice dropped an octave, cold and measured. “What it’s about now, anyway.”

Dean’s stomach turned. “You and me.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re holding civilians at gunpoint, Major. Innocent people.”

“I don’t need a lesson on morality from you,” Stoker snapped. “You’re just as guilty as I am, Dean. You know damn well you’re not the Boy Scout you’ve always pretended to be.” He laughed. “I had my sources on the inside. I kept as close an eye on you as I could after I went away. I know all about what you’ve been up to in the past few years. Quite a harrowing life you’ve lived since we last met, son.”

Dean’s grip on the radio tightened, his knuckles turning white. “You’re the one who crossed the line that day, Major. You’re the one who buried your conscience in the sand. This whole situation we’re in now has nothing to do with you or me.”

“You sanctimonious little bastard,” Stoker grumbled. “I terminated those people that day because they were the enemy, plain and simple.”

“You murdered innocent lives because you lost your frigging mind, asshole. Again, don’t try to twist the facts on me here. I turned you, Crisp, and that dipshit Kennefick in because men like you are a disgrace to the uniform. You twisted fucks are the reason people from other nations look down on us with such a palpable level of disdain.”

“You took my life away, you dishonorable little cocksucker!” Stoker growled. “I’m here because you turned on your own kind, because you couldn’t grasp—and will never grasp—what it truly takes to be a soldier, the level of sacrifice it requires.”

Dean closed his eyes, swallowing hard as the heaviness of everything that had happened settled over him again. “You don’t get to turn this on me,” he muttered, his jaw tight. “You murdered that kid. And you murdered any chance you had of coming back from it after you did it.”

Stoker’s voice came through the static, slow and deliberate. “I did what was necessary. We were fighting a war. And in war, the rules change.”

Dean gritted his teeth, feeling the rage bubble up in his chest. “You killed that kid because you could, Stoker. You may have been a good man at one point in time, but something snapped. Your mind broke. You killed simply for the sake of wanting to watch someone die.”

“And here you are again, Corporal, playing the hero, reporting me out of some misplaced sense of duty.” Stoker exhaled slowly. “You should have kept your mouth shut, Corporal. You fucked me, Crisp, and Kennefick over because of what you did.”

“You think you’re the only one who lost something, Major? You think you’re the only one who paid a hefty price for what we went through?” Dean tightened his grip on the radio. “All of us were struggling. You just decided to take the coward’s way out.” He held up his hand. “I don’t give a damn what you think, Stoker. I did what was right. And now you’re holding people hostage to cover your tracks. I’m done going in circles with you on this shit. This is your last chance. Let them go.”

There was a long silence, and then Stoker’s voice crackled back through the radio, colder than before. “You think you can just waltz in here, play the good guy, and somehow make this right? You’re not a hero. You never were. You and I both know the only thing you ever were good at was surviving. That’s why you’re here, still breathing. But this time? It’s different. This time, there’s no getting out. You’re gonna watch this play out, just like the rest of us. No one walks away clean.”

Dean’s heart hammered in his chest, but his voice was steady when he spoke. “If you wanna go toe-to-toe with me, Major,” he drew a sharp breath, “I’m game.”

Stoker cackled, his tone dark and filled with malice. “I’m glad this is happening, Corporal. I truly thought the day would never come that I would have the chance to even the score with you. Fate sent you right to my doorstep just before I tapped out for good.”

Tapped out for good?

Dean squinted.

What the hell is he talking about?

Dean’s fingers hovered over the radio, his mind running through the possibilities. He needed to keep Stoker talking, keep him distracted long enough for him to get in position. Time was running out.

“All right, fucko,” Dean said. “What do you want?”

“Simple exchange,” Stoker replied. “You turn yourself in now, or I start killing the hostages—one for every fifteen minutes that pass.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Stoker,” he gnashed his teeth, “don’t.”

“You always were the idealistic one,” Stoker replied. “Here and now, it’s going to be your downfall. Again, the choice here is simple—your life in exchange for those of the hostages.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?” Stoker huffed. “Go ahead and walk over to the edge of that roof you’re on. I know you’re there. You were so goddamn overzealous, as expected, that we picked you up on the motion detector leading out to the roof. Get up. Take a long hard look to the west. Don’t worry. I’ve ordered the rest of my men to stand down. I don’t want to kill you, at least not yet.”

What do you do now, ace?

“Move fast, Corporal,” Stoker instructed. “A young woman’s life depends on it.”

Dean walked closer to the edge of the roof, being careful not to show himself out in the open. The last thing he wanted to do was call the bluff of a guy who had once demonstrated—several times over—that killing innocent people was a feat he could accomplish easier than breathing.

16

The harsh night wind whistling throughout the rooftop hit Dean’s face. He could practically hear his heart pounding. His breathing was heavy from adrenaline.

Don’t do it, Stoker.

His eyes scanned the complex below, the sprawling campus bathed in the dim lights of buildings that had been stripped of life.

Don’t you fucking do it!

Dean could see shadows of mercenaries moving around. He remembered the map and focused his attention immediately on Building 301.

That’s where they are.

The hostages.

It’s a good spot to house them.

“Keep an eye peeled, son,” Stoker said over the airwaves. “They’re bringing her out in a moment.”

Dean’s chest tightened as he watched three mercenaries move out into the bright light over the entry door of Building 301 with a hostage. Her hands were tied behind her back, her head hung low, her shoulders sagged with defeat.

“Her name is Robin Mills,” Stoker informed Dean over the radio. “She was part of a robotics team here at JPL, just another cog in the machine, a scientist with a critical job.”

And she doesn’t deserve to be here, trapped in the middle of Stoker’s madness.

Dean swore under his breath. His fingers wrapped around the cold metal of the radio trembled. The crackle of static was sharp, biting. “Knock it off, Stoker.”

“That’s Major Stoker, you disrespectful little shit.” Stoker’s voice was calm and steady, almost as if he were narrating a story rather than threatening a life.

“Don’t do this.”

“Do you see her, Dean?”

Dean swallowed hard, eyes still locked on the woman being flanked by the three mercenaries. “Yeah,” he whispered into the radio. “I see her.”

“Good.” Stoker’s laugh crackled through the radio. It was dry, almost amused. She’s a smart one, you know. Worked on the Mars Rover team. She also has a family—a husband, two boys and a girl.”

“Goddamn you, Stoker.” Dean’s stomach churned as he watched one mercenary force Robin Mills to her knees. “Let this woman go.”

Stoker spoke again, his voice colder now. “I’m going to give her a chance to speak, Corporal. She’s been begging for a moment.”

Dean’s pulse quickened as he clocked one of the mercenaries stepping forward and holding a small radio in front of Robin. Her voice cracked as she gasped for air, her breath shallow.

Robin’s voice was soft but desperate. “Please. I work at JPL. I—” She paused, struggling to regain her composure. “I’m not part of this. I’m a systems engineer. I help design hardware for NASA’s programs. I work on spacecraft. I design communication systems for satellite operations. I don’t know anything about what’s happening here.”

Dean’s heart dropped to his stomach as he watched her.

She doesn’t belong here.

She isn’t a part of the mess Stoker created.

She has no place in this war.

Stoker’s voice came back over the radio. “She’s not so different from you, Dean. She did her job. Her hands are clean, as she says. She didn’t ask for this. But sometimes that doesn’t matter, does it?”

Dean closed his eyes, the seriousness of Stoker’s words pressing against him. “If you want me, Major, this isn’t the way to go about it.”

“I beg to differ,” Stoker said. “Like I said before, the exchange here is simple—your life for hers. Every fifteen minutes that go by and you refuse to turn yourself in, another hostage dies.”

Dean stepped closer to the edge of the rooftop, his eyes narrowing on the illuminated scene below. Robin’s life hung in the balance.

“You can stop it, laddie,” Woody gibbered. “You can stop all of it,” he sighed. “But it’s not going to be without consequences.”

Dean knew Stoker wasn’t going to stop. Not without blood. He would follow through with his threats, and more innocent lives would come as the cost.

“You’ve got a choice to make here, Corporal,” Stoker said, cutting through his thoughts like a razor. “I know you. You’ve never been able to turn away from a fight. You’ve always stepped up, even when you shouldn’t have.”

Dean’s fingers flexed more tightly around the radio, but he didn’t respond immediately. His eyes stayed fixed on the mercenaries below, watching them position themselves around Robin, rifles at the ready. The other hostages, still locked inside the building, had no idea what was about to happen. None of them knew if they would live or die.

Dean’s mind flashed back to all the faces he’d seen die over the years. He could still hear the screams of men he’d served with. He could still hear the echo of gunfire, the smell of burning flesh, the fog of confusion and chaos. He had failed them, but he wasn’t going to fail again.

“Stop playing God, Stoker,” Dean hissed, his anger welling up inside him. “Let this woman go.”

“No chance.”

“Please.”

“You have twenty seconds to decide.”

Dean’s heart hammered in his chest. He knew that Stoker was right. He had a choice to make. He could step in. He could try to save Robin. But in doing so, he would be throwing himself into the fire. Stoker wouldn’t let him walk away from this. If he interfered, there would be no escape. There would be no redemption.

“Make a decision, my friend,” Woody said. “Time is running out.”

Stoker’s voice came again, breaking through the fog of Dean’s thoughts. “She’s about to die, Corporal. Do you really want that on your conscience? You know what has to happen. You have to turn yourself over to me. It’s just a matter of whether or not you can live with it.”

Dean’s eyes flicked back to Robin. One of the mercenaries had her at gunpoint, but something had changed. She wasn’t begging anymore. She was looking at them, her posture one of defiance rising up from within her. She wasn’t going to die without a fight. And neither would Dean.

Dean stepped back from the edge, turning to pace around the rooftop, his mind spinning with the consequences of his next actions. His every instinct screamed for him to help.

I can’t let this happen.

Not again.

Dean clipped the radio to his vest, slid his M4 off his shoulder, raised it, walked back to the edge of the roof, and rested the handguard on the edge of the railing. He braced his rifle, locked his elbows, and lined up the sights on the mercenary who was pointing his gun at Robin’s head.

Breathe.

Slow it down.

Make sure you hit the target.

“I’m not going to let you kill her,” Dean finally said, the words heavy in the air. “And I’m not giving you what you want either.”

“This woman is about to die, Corporal,” Stoker replied. “And several more will follow. I hope this lesson is one that will stay ingrained in your mind.”

The radio went silent.

Take him out.

Give her a chance to run.

Christ.

Dean drew a breath.

Please, let this work.

Without another word, Dean adjusted his stance and lined up the merc’s head between the sights.

“Go, Robin,” Dean whispered to no one. “Run.”

Dean watched as the mercenary chambered a round, his finger tightening on the rifle’s grip. He saw Robin lower her head, fear etched in her posture.

“All right,” Dean whispered as his finger squeezed the trigger. “Let’s hope this works.”

17

Less than a second after Dean squeezed the trigger, the head of the merc beside Robin snapped back, red mist spraying out from the wound as the body fell backward onto the pavement. As soon as Dean confirmed he hit the target, he quickly took aim at the second merc, fired a shot, and watched the man drop. By that point, the third merc had retreated into Building 301.

God damn it.

Dean saw Robin cowering with her hands covering her head.

Get out of there, Robin!

Knowing the radio beside Robin was live and within earshot, Dean ducked down behind the parapet and keyed the radio.

“Robin!” Dean screamed. “Run. Go! Get the hell out of there.”

Robin hesitated for a moment. Dean’s stomach tightened with the fear that she might freeze, but then slowly she started to move.

The moment she turned and fled back into Building 301, a bullet thwacked off the parapet to Dean’s left.

Shit!

Dean’s heart hammered against his chest as he crouched by the wall. The sound of the gunshot still echoed in his ears.

That’s a sniper.

Dean’s eyes darted left and then right, but he couldn’t pinpoint the source. His body was tense like a coiled spring, ready to react at any moment. Then another bullet hit the floor next to him, sending a jagged chunk of concrete skittering past his legs.

Too damn close, dude.

You need to run.

Dean’s instincts kicked in. He pulled up his M4. Another crack sounded, the bullet cutting through the air near his head and missing it by inches.

Dean took a steadying breath. The mercs on the ground had seen him, and the sniper, wherever he was, wasn’t going to stop.

Move, fucker.

Now!

Dean turned, sprinting toward the door to the stairwell. He kicked the door open and rushed through just as two more rounds hit somewhere near the door.

“Don’t kill him!” Stoker cried out over the airwaves. “I need him alive.”

As Dean scampered down the stairs, he knew exactly what was coming. The mercs would be closing in, flooding the stairwell, and securing the exits. But he knew he could get down fast. If he could find somewhere to retreat and post up, he still had a chance.

Go.

Run.

Get out.

Flying down the stairs, Dean didn’t look back. Even though he couldn’t see the mercs, he could sense they were closing in, moving into the parking structure like a pack of wolves.

Run.

Find a place to post up.

You’re gonna have to dig in and fight.

Dean pushed harder, faster, taking the stairs two at a time before he arrived at the ground level and kicked open the door.

A shot rang out twenty yards ahead of him and clipped the doorframe. His pulse spiked as he swung up his M4 and caught sight of the two mercs rushing toward him, spaced apart as they shouted for Dean to freeze.

Dean squeezed off a single burst from his M4, the reverb of the gunshots echoing throughout the campus. The pair of mercs retreated as the bullets whizzed over their heads, cursing as they took cover.

“All units,” Stoker howled over the airwaves. “Don’t kill him. I’m not gonna say it again.”

Thanks, Stoker.

Appreciate the help.

Dean jogged east, scanning the terrain as Caine’s voice cut through his earpiece.

“Cabbie. Talk to me.”

Can’t.

Too busy.

Dean’s eyes quickly did a sweep of the area—nothing at first. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of boots on asphalt on his left and right.

Multiple sets.

They’re on the move.

Trying to flank me.

Dean didn’t wait to see how many. He sprinted toward the eastern edge of the campus, toward the thick of the JPL buildings. His mind was clear, his feet fast, each step pushing him away from the chaos.

Keep going.

Find a spot to hide.

The campus loomed ahead, dark and vast. Security cameras dotted the pathways, but Dean was too quick. He darted into the shadows, flitting from one section of the campus to the next. His breath was loud in his ears, but he kept his pace steady. He could still hear footsteps behind him—the mercs, the snipers—but they weren’t closing in just yet.

The snipers can see me.

No chance that they don’t.

Dean recalled the no-kill order Stoker put out over the radio.

The bastard wants me alive.

Dean cut through an alley, hugging one edge of Building 301. He could feel his legs burning, his lungs pushing for air, but he couldn’t afford to slow down. Not now.

Keep moving. Keep moving.

A crack of gunfire from above stitched the concrete path just to the left of Dean. He raised up his M4, scanning the rooftops, clocking a sniper posted up on the roof of Building 302 to the southeast.

The sniper fired once more—a single round that thwacked the path behind Dean. As Dean spun around, he squeezed off a short burst in the sniper’s direction. He knew it wouldn’t hit the mark, but it would push the sniper back and buy him some time.

Keep running.

Dean eyed a three-story building fifty yards to the east—Building 303, according to the mental snapshot he had taken of the map.

That’ll do.

Dean knew the sniper was still watching, still searching for him. He could feel the force of another shot being fired just behind him. It missed Dean by a good twelve feet. The sniper was struggling, wanting to line up a clean shot, but Stoker wouldn’t allow it.

Dean pushed harder, vaulting a short wall and running low to the ground. More shots rang out from mercs scattered to the south and west, but Dean was quick, weaving through the narrow path between the buildings. Every turn was calculated. Every move instinctual.

Dean took a sharp corner, darting between buildings, heading deeper into the campus. There was a narrow corridor leading to the back of Building 303.

If I can get there, I can find some cover, regroup, and figure out my next move.

Another shot zipped past him—the source of the shot from the south, about fifty yards away. Dean ducked and sprinted harder, worried that Stoker would rescind the no-kill order, hoping that the mercs and the sniper wouldn’t manage to maim him and take him out of the fight.

Dean reached Building 303. His heart lodged in his throat. His fingers found the door handle. It wasn’t locked. He yanked it open, slipping inside just as another round rang out, hitting the wall beside the door.

He slammed the door shut.

Stood back.

Trained his M4 on the door and waited.

Wait.

One minute ticked by.

Now find a spot to post up.

Dean turned and strolled through the Solar System Exploration Building, the silence heavy around him. The only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner. The lights overhead flickered slightly as he moved past empty desks and unoccupied workstations, the stark white walls adorned with photos of distant planets and spacecraft. The vast, open space felt abandoned, but Dean knew it was only a matter of time before this place would come to life again.

For now, it was just him and the echo of his footsteps.

A few moments later, Dean heard two men outside—mercs, their voices low, murmuring as they passed.

“He’s in there, right?”

“Yeah, he went in that door.”

“Let’s take him!”

“Negative. Wait for backup.”

Dean held his breath.

Time seemed to drag on. The mercs outside were being cautious. They weren’t rushing in. They were waiting for orders from Stoker.

Good.

That means I’ve got time.

Dean’s mind raced through his options. He could wait them out—maybe they’d think he had gone another direction. But that would only buy him a few minutes. He wasn’t stupid enough to think he had more than that. They would come for him. And when they did, he might not have a clear shot.

Dean scanned the room, his hand brushing over old equipment that spoke of space history.

Nothing useful.

He shot a look over his shoulder toward the door he had scampered through.

Dean checked his weapons. His M4 was still slung tight across his back. His Glock was loaded. He still had his grenades, but it was going to take more than that to get out of this.

I need to secure this place.

Dean located a desk and pushed it toward the door, blocking it. He proceeded to gather whatever he could find—more desks, chairs, tables—and jammed them against the door and on top of the desk.

The voices outside the building were getting louder.

“Secure this bitch,” Dean mumbled as he patrolled the interior of the building in a bid to pin down every point of ingress or egress. Fast.

18

Stoker was furious at the mercs’ failure so far to take Dean Blackwood in alive. He was livid that Blackwood had managed to kill four of his men in the process. Building 303 was a quarter of a mile from where Stoker and Crisp were holed up.

“I should’ve known,” Stoker murmured. “Leave it to Blackwood to pull some hair-brained stunt like this.”

Crisp motioned with his M4 to Building 303. “Spotters said he ducked in there a few minutes ago.”

“He’s probably fortifying the place.”

“It’s one man, Major,” Crisp smirked as he shot a look at Stoker. “Our men can take him right now.”

“Not yet.”

“May I ask why, sir?”

Stoker stopped pacing, raised a finger, and poked it into Crisp’s chest. “Because Blackwood’s brand goes ballistic on any problem that comes his way,” he sneered. “Apparently, that was his nickname back when he was in the Bureau’s undercover division. Ballistic Blackwood. If our men storm the building now, they can take him, but he’ll go apeshit and take out God knows how many of them in the process.”

“What about the hostages?” Crisp motioned in the direction of Building 301. “We could grab a few more, place them in front of 303, and tell Blackwood we’re gonna snap their friggin’ necks if he doesn’t comply.”

“Easy, Captain.” Stoker puffed his chest. “If we go with the same tactic, we’re asking for a repeat of the last disaster. Blackwood’s got eyes on our men from that building. He could just start picking them off, one shot at a time.”

Jaw clenched, Crisp nodded and fiddled with his rifle. Like Stoker, he wanted to watch Blackwood suffer in the same ways he had made them suffer after he stabbed them in the back so many years ago.

“We just need to think for a moment,” Stoker continued. “There’s a way to lure out Blackwood. Using the hostages is still an option, yeah, but I want to lower his guard. I want him to feel like he’s got no choice but to come out with his hands high above his head.”

“Psycho son of a bitch.” Crisp flashed a sardonic grin. “He’s still as crazy as he was all those years ago.”

“Yes, he is, Captain.” Countless instances of Blackwood throwing himself into the thick of it while under Stoker’s command flashed through the Major’s mind. “Brazen as ever.”

While examining Building 303, Stoker came up with an idea. The plan was as simple as it was brutal, and one he figured would offer him the highest chance of success at luring Blackwood out of his hole.

“Captain Crisp,” Stoker said. “What’s the current headcount of our men?”

“Fourteen men, sir,” Crisp replied. “Not including us. Alpha Team, my unit, is down to four members. Beta and Omega both have five men each. Blackwood terminated four of our people after he infiltrated.”

“I want a perimeter around Building 303,” Stoker ordered, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the structure. “Have Beta and Omega take positions on all four corners. Lock down all points of ingress and egress. Alpha unit will remain on hostage detail—no exceptions.”

Crisp raised his radio to his lips. Before he could send out the orders, Stoker palmed his hand over the device.

“Crisp, I also want you to go get some gas cans out of that maintenance building over there and extract as much gasoline as you can from our vehicles. Enough to set that entire building ablaze.”

The proposal triggered Crisp’s lips to twitch into a grin—Stoker’s idea to literally smoke out Blackwood was an order he was more than thrilled to comply with.

“Copy that, sir.”

“We also need to switch our radio frequencies,” Stoker commanded. “I don’t want Blackwood intercepting our comms. Move to the backup channel. Let the men know they’re to stay on that frequency and that frequency only.”

Nodding confirmation of the orders, Crisp quickly left the building and began barking out instructions to the other Templars over the radio.

While his second-in-command executed the plan, Stoker pulled out his radio. His finger hovered over the transmit button as a surge of anger tightened his jaw. The exchange with Blackwood would end in his favor, one way or another.

“Corporal Blackwood,” Stoker muttered into the device. “Are you receiving me?”

Static.

“Come on, son. Let’s have a talk.”

More static.

“Corporal,” Stoker snickered, “you’re outgunned and outmatched here. If I have to, I will revoke the no-kill order on you.”

A light scratching came over the line, followed by a heavy sigh. Then Blackwood’s voice finally bled through the static.

“Major Stoker.”

“Corporal Blackwood.”

“Former Corporal,” Dean corrected. “I haven’t been in the service for a minute.”

“Once a Ranger, always a Ranger.” Stoker’s eyes clocked several of his Templars setting up a secure perimeter around Building 303. “How are you holding up, my friend?”

“Not bad.” Dean laughed. “Little winded from our last exchange.”

“Sounds like you’re shirking your cardio.”

“A little bit. To be fair, I’m not exactly in my prime anymore.”

Thoughts of the cancer growing inside Stoker pushed their way to the front of his mind. “The days of minimal consequences and bouncing back from even the worst of injuries are long gone, Corporal. We’re old men now.”

Dean huffed. “Speak for yourself. I’m tired, not dead.”

“Not yet.”

“Is that a threat?”

“We’re all dying, son,” Stoker said, his voice cold. “You may go tonight, tomorrow, or a week from now, but you, me, and everyone else on this campus will eventually meet the same end.”

“I recall you telling me something to a similar effect back when I was under your command,” Dean replied. “You told me once that when a man accepts his inevitable end⁠—”

“All obstacles in his path are met with a strength unlike any other,” Stoker finished, nodding. “I recall.”

Dean sighed, his circumstance bearing down on him. “Guess I should give you a bit of credit for that one. I’ve been living by that credo for the past decade.” He paused. “For better or worse.”

“So I’ve heard.” Stoker felt a brief swell of pride. Seeing Blackwood, once a soldier under his command, transform into an unstoppable force confirmed that he’d done his job as a superior officer. “Again, you’ve had quite the illustrious career since we last saw each other.”

“You’re just killing time here.”

“And you’re boxed in. You’ll have to come out sooner or later. It’s just a question of whether you’ll come out of your own accord.”

“And if not,” Dean said, “what happens then?”

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see what that particular outcome will entail.” Stoker examined several Templars rushing around the perimeter of Building 303, gas cans in hand.

Don’t make me burn you, Blackwood.

Just surrender your gear, and maybe I’ll spare your life for old time’s sake.

Stoker clenched a fist.

That little prick robbed me of my life.

“In all honesty, Corporal,” Stoker continued, “I do have to give you credit for that little stunt you pulled back on the roof. Quite a risk you took there sparing that woman’s life. Then again, you’ve always been a gambler.”

“I have you to thank for that.”

Stoker screwed up his face. “How do you figure?”

“You’re the one who said failure was never an option. You told me time and again that the lives we were trained to protect came first—before our own. Guess I took that to heart.”

“Things have changed.”

“Not the way I see it,” Dean said. “Ranger or no Ranger, I swore a long time ago to serve this country—against all enemies, foreign and domestic. In many ways, Major, I still abide by that promise. I just never thought I’d find myself facing you, but the punchlines to life’s bad little jokes tend to be grim more often than not.”

Hearing the words triggered a flood of memories for Stoker. He thought back to his time in prison—the divorce papers served while he was locked in a cell, the cold reality of his son Derek’s rejection when he learned what had landed his father in Leavenworth. And then there was the cancer diagnosis, the final blow, the coup de grâce that sealed his fate.

“Grim is an understatement,” Stoker remarked, stifling a cough with his fist. “I’ve thought about that considerably in the past few years.”

“Same.”

“I lost a family.”

“So did I.”

“The price of being a soldier,” Stoker gritted, his jaw tightening. “We were warned about it, but until you’re paying that toll yourself, you can’t understand the sacrifices that come with it.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s tone softened. “It sucks.”

“Very much so.”

The two men shared the silence. They were in different buildings, unable to meet eyes, yet the distance didn’t dull the shared bond. Both were disgruntled soldiers, battle-worn and broken in their own ways.

“Tell me one thing,” Dean said. “Why are you doing this? Why are you taking a bunch of people hostage, hiding behind some twisted religious awakening?”

“You don’t buy that story?” Stoker’s voice was sharp, challenging.

“Not for a second, sir. You were never the God-fearing type. Even in the face of all the horrors we both witnessed, you clung to your belief that life is just random, that it’s all chance. I don’t buy for a minute that the Holy Spirit grabbed you and steered you down this path you’re on now.”

“Interesting.” Stoker thought about his men, fourteen in all with ten of them circling Building 303, weapons drawn, gas cans in hand. “Why do you think I’m doing this?”

“I’m working on a theory,” Dean said. “And I’ll figure it out sooner rather than later.”

“Come out, Corporal. Be smart here. Just surrender your weapons and turn yourself in. We can discuss the possibility of you walking away from this situation alive.”

Dean rattled off a hearty chuckle. “There’s no fucking way you’re letting me walk away from this, Major. You swore to me the day would come when you’d get even with me for putting you away. Now that you have the chance, you’re not backing down.”

“I can’t lie.” Stoker cut a glance at the sniper Crisp had posted on top of Building 302. “The prospect of tearing you apart limb by limb for what you did instills me with a considerable amount of joy.” He held his head high. “But I know you, son. You won’t lay down your arms and tap out without taking a few of us with you.”

“That’s right.”

“Then we have a problem.”

“I suppose we do.”

Anger brimmed inside Stoker as he reflected on the day he had been stripped of his title, medals, and honor because of Corporal Dean Blackwood.

You made me what I am.

You forced me to be here.

The drastic measures I agreed to take here are all because of you.

“You will come out of that building, Corporal,” Stoker seethed. “One way or another. You will answer for the betrayal you committed, for the lives you destroyed.”

“Own your mistakes, Major!” Dean barked. “You’re the one who made the choices that put you in this mess. Frankly, I’ve had my fill of talking to you.”

“Corporal …” A raspy cough rumbled in Stoker’s chest, one he couldn’t shake off. He felt like he was choking on razor blades, the cough so violent that he doubled over, his breath caught in his throat. Pain shot through his ribs, but he forced himself upright, pushing past the burning in his lungs.

“Major,” Dean called out. “What’s the problem?”

A red-faced Stoker placed a hand to his chest, gasping for air. He gritted his teeth, fighting through the sting in his ribs as he finally managed to take a deeper breath. The pain didn’t fully fade, but he didn’t have time to focus on it.

“You have thirty minutes to come out of there,” Stoker rasped into the radio, his breath still labored. “Otherwise⁠—”

“You’ll make me. I get it.”

“Then make your decision.”

“Major?” Dean said. “Go fuck yourself.”

With that, the line went dead. For a long moment after the call ended, Stoker stared at Building 303, his jaw clenched.

Blackwood won’t come out on his own.

Stoker keyed his radio and instructed Crisp to inform the men to be ready with the gas cans.

You know what you need to do.

19

Dean leaned against a cold wall, gripping the radio in his hand. His chest was tight with anger and regret. The sound of Stoker’s voice still echoed in his ears, haunting him like all the dire memories he’d carried throughout his life.

This isn’t my fault.

Stoker’s the one who killed those people.

I had to do what I had to do.

He’s the one who went psycho, not me.

For a moment, Dean allowed his mind to drift back to a time when Stoker had been more than just a former commander. The man had been a father figure, someone Dean had looked up to. But that person was long gone, replaced by a version of someone who had no lines left to cross.

He has no honor.

No scruples.

He’s deranged, and that’s all there is to it.

Dean’s fingers tightened on the radio as he fought back the ache in his gut. The regret lingered, gnawing at him, but deep down, he knew that turning in Stoker, Crisp, and Kennefick had been his only option.

“You made the right call, lad,” Woody said. “As hard as it was to do.”

I hate it when you’re the voice of reason.

“I’m right though.”

You are.

Dean examined the windows of Building 303, shades closed, and heard the unmistakable sounds of mercenaries outside setting up a perimeter.

“All right, Deano,” Dean mumbled. “What the hell do we do now?”

Having used everything he could get his hands on—desks, chairs, tables, bookcases, computers—to barricade all points of ingress and egress into the building, Dean felt a rare moment of relief. He wasn’t sure how long he would have to hold out, but the place was on lockdown now—secure, at least for the moment. The makeshift barricades were a hasty but effective defense, and for the first time in a while, Dean allowed himself a brief moment of quiet as he leaned against the wall, knowing the importance of what was happening.

“You can’t stay here for long,” Woody remarked. “You know that Stoker will try to force you out.”

I know.

“He’ll probably send in a squad.”

Maybe.

“Or he might just burn the building to the ground.”

Shit.

Dean paced the floor, watching the silhouettes of the mercs outside as they swept past the windows.

That’s probably what the son of a bitch will do.

“What about the hostages?” Woody asked. “Chances are high he’ll try to pop a few of them to get you to comply.”

Most likely.

“So what are you gonna do?”

Dean kicked at the leg of a desk. “Fuck!” He hollered. “I don’t know, damn it.” He took a moment to breathe. “Just let me think things through here.”

The radio he’d confiscated from the merc crackled to life, Stoker’s voice cutting through the static with chilling clarity.

“Twenty-five minutes, Corporal. Time is running out.”

Damn it.

Dean scanned the room, his eyes quickly darting across the dimly lit space. His gaze landed on a desk cluttered with papers and equipment. Among the mess, a laptop sat half-open, its screen dark. He crossed the room with quick, measured steps, his boots clicking against the wood floor. He grabbed the computer, opened it, and saw the faint glow of the screen lighting up his face as he prepared to use it.

“Oh, lord,” Woody groaned. “Why are you doing this?”

To drown out Stoker’s voice.

And yours.

Dean clicked on an Internet browser.

“There’s no Internet.”

I know.

“Then what the hell are you doing?”

Dean scooped up the dead merc’s radio, the one with a direct line to Stoker. “You there, Major?”

“Go ahead, son.”

“Mind if you guys let me login to the Wi-Fi here?”

“What for?”

“I want to listen to some music.”

Stoker chuckled. “Sure thing,” he finally said. “If that’ll help speed up your decision-making process.”

Dean stared at the laptop, waiting for a Wi-Fi signal. After a few seconds, a weak signal flickered on.

“There,” Stoker said. “Have at it. You now have twenty-two minutes left to come out.”

“Sure thing.” Dean opened an Internet browser, typed in YouTube, and entered a song into the search bar. “I’ll hit you back soon, he told Stoker.”

Dean hit play and then cranked up the volume to the max, allowing the sounds of “Fool for You” by the Impressions to drown out the silence. He located a chair and slumped into it. The way he saw it, his situation was fucked—he’d either die inside the building or be dragged out by Stoker and his thugs.

This is bad.

Really bad.

Dean tapped his foot to the beat.

How the shit do I always end up in these situations?

Captain Crisp and Major Stoker were outside now. Stoker’s face was twisted in deep confusion as he stared at the entrance to Building 303. The low thrum of music leaked out, a stark contrast to the tension in the air.

“Sir?” Crisp said. “What the hell is that?”

With a grin and a shrug, Stoker replied, “Call it a last request. Blackwood knows he’s fucked.” Stoker pulled out his prescription bottle, removed a pill, and placed it in his mouth. “Let him have it.”

Crisp rolled his eyes and signaled to the men. The distant Motown music from inside was a bizarre annoyance, but if it would help Blackwood wave the white flag, he was all for it.

He’s ours.

A surge of optimism rose inside of Crisp.

This prick has reached the end of the line.

20

Dean’s finger hovered over the transmitter toggle on his chest for his direct line to Lillian Caine. He needed someone to talk to—anyone—to distract himself from the oppressive nature of the situation. His thoughts were spiraling.

If he didn’t find a way to ground himself, he’d drown in the chaos.

“Go ahead, Cabbie,” Caine answered.

“What’s up?” Dean asked.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” Caine paused. “Is that music playing?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“From where?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Cabbie.” Caine’s voice tightened. “What the hell is going on? Are you all right?”

“I’m aces.” Dean stared at the dim glow of the laptop, the faint hum of Motown still echoing from the laptop’s speakers. “Kind of in a pickle at the moment though.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“I’m currently trapped inside Building 303,” Dean explained. “Stoker has me boxed in.”

“So it is Stoker,” Caine said. “You’re confirming he’s the one in charge of the mercs?”

“He certainly is.” Dean cracked his neck, thinking back on his call with his former Major. “I’m also pretty sure he’s going to smoke me out of here soon.”

“Shit,” Caine sighed. “What happened?”

“Long story.”

“Tell me what’s going on, Cabbie. I need a sitrep.”

Dean grimaced, looking around the room. The walls seemed to squeeze in on him, instilling an unsettling claustrophobia. It felt like the space around him was shrinking. “I’m running low on time here. And choices. I’m pretty sure I might have to shoot my way out of here.”

There was a long pause on the other end. Caine’s voice was quieter when she finally spoke. “What should I tell Atkins?”

“Not a damn thing,” Dean said. “If he knows what’s going on, he might try to launch the air strike earlier than planned. Innocent people will get killed if he decides to go early.”

“Then what are you gonna do?”

As the outro to the song faded, Dean hit shuffle on the YouTube playlist. “I Wish It Would Rain” by the Temptations started playing, the melody taking him back to a time when his mother would play it on repeat.

“Damn,” Dean whispered, recalling the Motown hits Mother Blackwood would play one after another on their car rides to and from the grocery store. “Been a while.”

“Cabbie,” Caine called out. “Talk to me.”

“Just taking a minute here to get my head together.” Dean’s voice was flat, reality sinking in. “You know, I always found myself in tight situations, but this …” He glimpsed over at the window, “this is different.”

Caine let out a breath, and he could almost hear the mental gears turning on the other end of the line. “You gotta think of something here.”

“There aren’t a lot of options on the table, I’m afraid.”

“That’s not good enough.” Caine took a beat. “Look, I’ve read your file extensively. You’re clearly not the kind of a guy who taps out on any given situation.”

“Just because you read a few tidbits about me doesn’t mean you have the full rundown, Caine.” Dean rubbed his face, his frustration mounting. “And this is bad. I’m really dug in deep here.”

Caine’s voice was sympathetic but laced with concern. “I need you to stay calm. Think. You’ve got this.”

“Unless I shoot my way out of here,” Dean muttered. “I’m kind of screwed.”

The silence hung for a moment before Caine spoke again. “So what are you gonna do?”

Dean sat back, staring at the ceiling. “I dunno.” His mind wandered. “Do you go by ‘Lil’ at all?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Dunno.” Dean shrugged. “Just kind of took you for someone whose friends call her Lil.”

“My friends call me Lillian,” Caine said. “My mother called me Lil.”

“She still around?”

“She is.”

“What about your dad?”

“No,” Caine seethed. “Thank God.”

“I had a rough relationship with my old man too.” Dean wondered where his father was. What he was doing. How well he was holding up. “Two steps forward, three steps back. That’s always been our thing.”

“I took about eight or nine steps forward and a million back with my father,” Caine remarked. “He kind of brought that on himself.”

“Life’s fun, isn’t it?”

For a moment, Caine was silent. Then her voice came back, a little steadier. “I know what it’s like to feel stuck. You have to keep moving forward though. You figure out what you need to do to survive. It’s about persistence, even when it feels like everything’s against you.”

Dean grinned. “You’ve trained in hostage negotiation, haven’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“I did the training too.” He shifted his weight. “It’s all about killing time.”

“How much of it do you have right now?”

Dean checked the watch Holloway loaned him. “About eighteen minutes.” He squinted. “Where’s Holloway?”

“Working on some of Stoker, Crisp, and Kennefick’s files right now,” Caine said. “He should be checking in soon.”

“Hollow Man.” Dean rolled his eyes. “He tell you about what happened? About why I went on the run?”

“He mentioned something but he didn’t get into specifics. All I know are the bits and pieces I heard from him and Atkins.” Caine laughed. “Sounds like you pissed a lot of people off from what I gathered.”

“It was a case we were both on. Long story short, I ended up tearing up Dodger Stadium at the end of it.”

“I see,” Caine said, her voice soft but understanding. “I think I remember hearing something about that in the news.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t my finest hour.”

“We all have those moments.”

“I have more bad ones than good ones, it seems.” Dean gazed around the room. “Take this little situation, for example.”

There was a brief silence before Caine’s voice broke through again. “I’ve been through my fair share of craziness. More than I’d care to remember.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Such as?”

There was a slight pause before Caine spoke, Dean sensing that she was considering how much she was willing to share. “I’ve been with the FBI for years. Sometimes, it feels like working for the Bureau is all I really remember. It’s taken up a big portion of my life. I suppose I’ve been through a lot of stuff that would break most people.”

“Takes a toll.”

“That it does.” The faces of Dean’s family raced through his mind. “Especially on the relationship front.” He leaned forward in his chair, sitting up straighter. “You have a personal life? A family maybe?”

“I don’t know if I wanna get into this with you, Cabbie.”

“Please.” Dean rested his head back against the chair. “I’m just looking for a little solace here.”

Caine’s voice softened, a hint of vulnerability creeping in. “I was married. I had a kid. My husband …”

Dean narrowed his eyes as he waited eagerly to hear more.

“He was killed by a carjacker.” Caine’s voice dropped, weighted with guilt. “It happened right in front of me. Left me and my daughter to pick up the pieces.”

Dean’s heart twisted. “Jesus.”

Caine paused briefly, the weariness in her voice unmistakable. “I had to keep going, at least for the kid’s sake.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably, his mind racing with memories of his own children. “I have two kids. Jeremy and Grace.”

“I know. I saw it in your file.”

“Haven’t seen them in a while.”

There was a pause, and then Caine spoke gently. “What happened?”

Dean swallowed, the ache of regret heavy in his chest. “That case I was part of with Holloway. I had to leave. Had to run. Had to protect them from that and all the other insanity I’ve been involved in the past few years. And now, it’s like I’m …” he squeezed his eyelids shut, “a stranger to them.”

Caine said nothing.

“I’d do anything to be with them again,” Dean said, his voice rough. “To be an actual father for once. But I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance now because of this.”

“You still have time,” Caine said quietly. “You find a way to make it out of this thing, you can still make things right.”

“I don’t know.” Dean picked up on the scuffle of boots outside the building. The mercs were closing in. “I mean, I hope I can.”

There was a long silence, the heavy conversation settling in the air. Finally, Caine spoke again, more resolute this time. “You have to find a way out, Blackwood. People are depending on you—those hostages, your family.” She drew a breath. “Me.”

Dean gently touched his earpiece. The words she said were sinking in. “So what do I do?”

“You said you’re stuck in there, right?”

“Stoker told me I either come out willingly or he’ll take me out.”

“Then you find the best option and go with it,” Caine emphasized. “You have no other choice. If you die, if you allow Stoker to take you, then those hostages are dead. You won’t ever have the chance to see your family again. I hate having to lay this all out on the table, but it’s true. You have to survive, Cabbie. There’s no other way.”

Dean turned off his transmitter, the truth of the matter hitting him like a freight train.

“She’s right, my friend,” Woody gibbered. “Surrender isn’t an option.”

I know.

Dean rose, took a look around, and slapped together a plan.

I need to find a way out of here.

21

Mike Holloway’s laptop screen illuminated his face, the glow faint against the dim light of the high school gym. He sat alone in the locker room, a stark contrast to the busy hub outside. Agents from the CIA and FBI filled the gym beyond the narrow hallway. Their conversations were urgent, every one of them working in tandem to resolve the hostage crisis unfolding inside the Jet Propulsion Laboratory.

They’re tired.

I’m tired.

I can only imagine how Deano is feeling.

The FaceTime call Holloway initiated clicked through. Joanna Foley appeared on the screen. She looked exactly as she always did—sharp, professional, no-nonsense. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her eyes held a cool, calculating sharpness. Her posture remained rigid, as if the weight of her work followed her even in moments of downtime.

“You’re still working?” Joanna asked, her tone laced with concern and irritation.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Holloway replied. His voice was tired but steady. His exhaustion gnawed at him. He paused for a beat, glancing toward the noise spilling in from the gym. “I need your help.”

“With what?”

“It’s about Major Ethan Stoker.”

At the mention of the name, Foley’s expression immediately sharpened. The shift was subtle but undeniable. Holloway didn’t need to be in the room with her to know that Stoker’s name held some significance, even for someone as cool-headed as Foley.

“What about him?” Foley’s voice dropped a notch, glazed with suspicion.

“He’s been off the radar for years. But now, suddenly he’s mixed up in this mess at JPL. I need to understand his time in Leavenworth better. I’m looking for a pattern, a connection. Something deeper. And I need it fast.”

Foley took a long pause, mulling over the request. “I’ll see what I can dig up,” she said, her voice steady, but there was an undercurrent of wariness. “You know I don’t have direct access to the Leavenworth logs. But I’ll check the deeper intel. Might be able to find something that isn’t exactly on the official record.”

Holloway leaned forward, feeling the burdensome conversation bearing down on him. “Anything you can find, Joanna. Quick.” He looked down to check the time on his watch but realized he had loaned it to Dean. “We’re running really short on time here.”

Foley nodded. “I’ll get back to you. But Mike, if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, it’s not going to be easy. Stoker’s prison records were sealed for a reason. They won’t just hand over the details.”

A bitter laugh slipped through Holloway’s lips. “I know that better than anyone. But something’s off. He’s not just some washed-up soldier who’s gone rogue. He’s connected to something bigger. It’s like he’s been grooming himself for this—this kind of operation. His time in prison—I need to know who he talked to, who he met with.”

Foley’s eyes narrowed “You’re chasing ghosts, Mike. But I’ll pull some strings and see what I can get for you. Don’t hang up. I’ll do this fast.” Her fingers moved in a blur as she typed, searching for anything that might give Holloway the edge he needed.

The seconds ticked by as she worked in silence except for the clacking of computer keys. Holloway’s eyes drifted toward the door to the gym where the noise of the operation continued. He could hear snippets of conversations— people moving and strategizing.

Hang in there, Dean.

We’ll sort this mess out.

“Okay,” Foley said, breaking the silence. “I’ve got something interesting. At one point, a man named John Andress visited Stoker in prison. It’s not in the official logs though. Andress was never recorded as a visitor.”

Holloway’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean, never recorded?”

“It’s strange,” she explained, “but I’ve cross-checked multiple sources, and it’s like he just slipped through the cracks. There’s no official log of his visits, but there are discrepancies in the documents. Small things, but they add up. I suspect he was using a different name or some kind of cover. It’s possible he’s someone with the kind of clearance to bypass normal procedures.”

Holloway’s mind raced.

John Andress.

He didn’t recognize the name, but he felt an unsettling chill as he considered the possibilities. “What do you know about Andress?”

Foley’s face tightened. “Not much. He was a contractor for JPL a few years back—nothing unusual about him at first glance. He eventually went to work for a company called Citadyne, a competitor of Sentinel Dynamics.”

“Sentinel?” Holloway shot a look out the door, wondering where Warren Novak was.

“Citadyne,” Foley went on, “specializes in advanced data analytics and AI development. They’ve been making waves, particularly in the defense sector.”

Holloway’s eyes narrowed as he processed the information. “So Andress is connected to the tech world. But what does that have to do with Stoker?”

Foley shrugged slightly. “That’s the million-dollar question. But I’d wager that Andress played a pivotal role in Stoker activating—maybe even in his current operation. There’s something off about this whole situation. If Stoker was in prison for years and suddenly has access to tech resources like Andress, then someone’s been pulling strings behind the scenes.”

Holloway nodded slowly, his mind starting to piece together the puzzle. “I need everything you’ve got on Andress and Citadyne. Their relationship with Stoker. This is more than a mercenary operation. This has to tie back to the work they’ve been doing.”

Foley paused, giving Holloway a final, somber look. “I’ll send everything I have. Just be careful, Mike. This might be bigger than you think.”

Holloway exhaled sharply. “Thanks, Joanna. Talk soon.”

As the call ended and the screen went dark, Holloway sat back and stared out at the agents in the gym. The echoes of conversations filtered in, but the thoughts racing through his mind drowned out the noise. This wasn’t just about Stoker anymore. It was about a network—one that spanned from JPL’s quiet labs to the corporate boardrooms of Citadyne.

Talk to Warren, that ousted CEO of Sentinel Dynamics who was too socially inept to sit on the Board.

Holloway gathered his gear and left the locker room.

What’s the connection? Maybe he can shed some light on this.

22

According to Stoker’s last check-in, Dean had fourteen minutes left to decide his next move. By that point, thanks in large part to Lillian Caine, the self-pity Dean had been drowning in was behind him, replaced by a surge of focus and determination.

Find a way out.

Dean paced the floors of Building 303, examining every window, door, nook, and cranny.

You can do this.

“Corporal,” Stoker called out over the radio. “Have you made your decision?”

In lieu of replying, Dean focused on the laptop screen. The Wi-Fi was still connected, though he had shut off the music a few moments before. The faint hum of the connection was the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

“It’s right there, laddie!” Woody beckoned. “Can’t you see it?”

Yeah.

Dean’s lips twitched into a hint of a beam, slapping together a plan on the fly as he conjured up an image of the mercenaries maintaining a perimeter outside the building.

Son of a gun.

Toggling his line to Caine, Dean slung his rifle and hovered over the laptop. “This is Cabbie.”

“Go ahead.”

It’s possible.

Isn’t it?

It’s insane, but that is my preferred speed.

“I need a favor,” Dean muttered to Caine. “Something fast.”

“What do you need?”

“I’ve got an idea.” Dean probed the space around him as though making sure Stoker and his goons weren’t listening in. “I need you to get someone, either Novak or one of your tech guys, to use the Wi-Fi network to trigger a high-pitched sound on cue—something loud and screeching, enough to make the mercs’ radios go haywire. I need them distracted. On top of that, I’ll need you to shut off the power to the entire JPL compound.”

Caine rattled off a sardonic chuckle. “You’re joking.”

“You told me to come up with an idea. This is an idea.”

“It’s insane.”

“But is it possible?”

“I mean …” Caine hesitated, her tone lacquered with optimism. “Maybe.”

Dean could practically hear her disbelief through the radio. “It’s the same thing Novak did earlier with the blackout. Stoker and his butt plugs obviously don’t have any backup power, so it’ll be chaos on their end. It’ll give me enough time.”

“To do what?”

Dean tapped the M4’s trigger guard with an itchy finger. “To shoot my way out of here.”

“Oh, God.”

“We don’t have the luxury of being picky here, Agent Caine.” Dean narrowed his eyes, determined. “Can it be done or not?”

“I’m not saying it’s impossible, but you’re pushing it, Cabbie. We’re going to need someone who knows the grid.”

“Get Novak.”

“He’s busy.”

Dean threw up his hands. “Doing what?”

“Holloway pulled him aside for a sidebar,” Caine explained. “He just entered the SCIF we set up with Atkins. Whatever they’re talking about, it’s serious enough that they don’t want anyone intruding on the conversation.”

“There’s gotta be someone else. Hell, you’ve got half the FBI and the CIA inside that gym. It’s a veritable federal law enforcement convention.”

Caine took a beat. “I’ll grab one of the techs in the command center—Carlos. He’s one of mine. The kid is smart as a whip. He might be able to make this happen. But that’ll take time.”

As if on cue, Stoker’s voice broke through the static on the other radio. “Twelve minutes, son. What’s it going to be?”

“You’ve got eleven minutes,” Dean told Caine. “Do whatever you have to do. This is the only play I’ve got here.”

“Copy that,” she replied.

Dean heard the shouting of the mercs outside, echoing throughout the campus. They were ramping up as time ticked by.

Dean paced, the sharp click of his boots breaking the silence. He checked his loaner watch from Holloway, then the door, scanning every shadow that swished past the windows.

Every minute felt like an hour.

His grip tightened on his weapon as the overwhelming plan settled in.

Come on.

Come on.

Come on.

Time is running out.

“Corporal,” Stoker reported in. “We’re reaching the end of the line here. What’s it gonna be?”

Stall.

“Just a few more minutes, Major.” Dean glanced over at the laptop, praying that Caine and her compadre Carlos were working hard on the other side. “I wanna do this the right way.”

“Stop sandbagging, son.”

“I’m not stalling,” he told Stoker.

“I’m going to burn you the fuck out of there, Blackwood,” Stoker growled. “You’ll either choke on smoke or burn up in the fire. Both of those are shit options, believe me.”

“So, that’s your plan?” Dean shook his head. “I was hoping you’d storm in through the front and take me out yourself, you spineless fuck.”

“Nine minutes.” Stoker’s voice crackled, a cough muffling his words. “If you haven’t dropped your weapons and let me know you’re coming out by then, the building goes up. You reading me?”

“Sure thing.”

“Check me.”

“Eat me, all right?” Dean snapped, his jaw clenched tight. “I’m marching into a firing squad out there.” He looked over at the windows, grinding his teeth. “You know what that’s like. You were the one lining innocent people up for it once upon a time.”

No reply came from Stoker.

Dean hoped his former superior was chewing on his own guilt.

“Okay, Cabbie,” Caine’s voice percolated through Dean’s earpiece. “I think we can pull this off.”

Dean flashed a toothy grin. “You’re a gem.”

“So I’ve been told,” Caine chuckled. “We’ll trigger the noise, and Carlos will send the signal. Just be ready to move once we do it.”

A thought entered Dean’s brain, his focus pinned to the laptop. “Can you have Carlos make a slight adjustment to the plan?”

“Are you serious?”

“After he sends out the noise over the radios, make sure he sustains it. I don’t want it fading out. Let it blast for a while.” Dean paused, a laugh escaping him. “Once that’s done, tell the kid to play some Led Zeppelin. Something classic. I want it as loud as possible in this place.”

Caine groaned. “All right.” She shot out a sigh. “Whatever you say.”

“Much obliged.”

“Stand by.”

Dean swallowed, his mind already processing the next few steps. The sweat on his face started to build again, a sense of urgency flooding through him.

Clock’s ticking, Blackwood.

Dean moved through the building, staying low, the burden of the mission on his mind. If Stoker was sticking to tactics, each corner was covered by a team, maybe about three men each—coordinated, disciplined.

“Cabbie,” Caine called out. “We’re ready.”

“Same here.”

“I’ve got Carlos with me. He’s prepping now. He’s been fully briefed on what to do. You’ll have everything you need to buy you a couple extra minutes of breathing room. You’ve got this.”

Dean exhaled, his eyes narrowing. “Copy that.”

His thoughts went dark for a moment, thinking of how this would unfold. A few minutes of chaos and gunfire the likes of which he hadn’t seen since he was in the Middle East. His plan had always been a tightrope walk, but again, Dean knew of no other way to operate.

“Dicey,” Woody said. “What happens once the place goes dark?”

As soon as the campus went dark and the radio interruption was sent over the mercs’ airwaves, Dean planned on using the smoke grenades in his vest. They would be key. He’d pull the pins and throw them out the windows in quick succession, creating a thick wall of cover that would disorient the mercs and give him a window to move.

No one will be able to see through that cloud, not even with night vision.

Once the smoke accumulated, Dean would use suppressive fire to take out as many of the mercs as he could in all directions. Whatever targets he didn’t take out would hopefully disperse. The noise, smoke, and chaos would mask his movements.

Dean would make his break to the west, staying low to the ground, using whatever shadows and smoke he could to slip past the mercs. With their attention split and the smoke clouding their view, he’d move fast, no second thoughts.

If everything goes as planned, I’ll be gone before they even realize I’m out of the building.

Dean turned his attention to the door, his heart drumming against his ribcage. He would make whatever shots he took count. Whatever happened next, he resolved to hustle his way out of Building 303 like his hair was on fire.

“To be fair,” Woody muttered, “it very well might be.”

Thanks, dickhead.

Dean nuzzled the stock of his M4 into his shoulder.

It’s always a treat having you ride shotgun.

“Anytime, laddie.”

23

“Idon’t like this, Major,” Crisp said, signaling the men on the perimeter with the gas cans to wait for the order to go. “What the hell is Blackwood doing in there?”

A stone-faced Stoker stroked his upper lip. It wasn’t a question of if Blackwood was attempting to concoct some kind of stunt—it was an issue of what exactly that stunt would be.

“If he tries to run, he’s dead,” Stoker replied, gesturing to all four corners of Building 303. He turned to Crisp. “What’s his play? Where the hell is he gonna go?”

A few moments went by. Crisp spent them thinking—ruminating on his time when Blackwood was under his and Stoker’s command.

“It was 2012,” Crisp mumbled, “when we cleared that house in Helmand.”

Stoker, grim-faced, closed his eyes and nodded.

“Heavy fire. No cover.” Crisp nodded at Building 303. “Blackwood didn’t wait for backup. He charged right into a room full of insurgents. It was just him, his rifle, and a handful of grenades. Corporal Blackwood took out a slew of those guys at close range.

“Reckless as hell,” Stoker added. “But that asshole pulled it off.”

“He saved the squad and turned the whole situation around, Major.”

“He got a Silver Star.”

“One could’ve argued he should’ve gotten the Medal of Honor.” Crisp realized maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say right now.

“And a frigging straitjacket to pin it on,” Stoker hissed.

Crisp pointed a finger at the building. “Blackwood’s not going down easy, sir. No way in hell.”

The exploits—of which there were many—of Corporal Dean Henry Blackwood ripped through Stoker’s mind, one after another.

Crisp is right.

Stoker put the call over the radio for the mercs with the gas cans to move into position.

Blackwood’s about to pull a stunt.

Positioned inside at the north end of the building, Dean faced the windows with drawn shades. He raised his M4, flicked the safety off, and waited impatiently for Caine and her tech pal to give him the green light.

You got this.

Dean slowed his breathing.

Make it happen.

“All right, Cabbie,” Caine’s voice came over his earpiece. “We’re ready.”

“Call me Dean.”

“What about⁠—?”

“Stoker and his buddies know I’m here. We don’t need to keep up the ruse.” Dean pulled the smoke grenades out of his vest—three of them—and placed them on the window sill. “And I think you and I have earned that whole first-name-basis thing.”

“Agreed,” Caine replied. “Just don’t call me Lil.”

“What should I call you then?”

“Lillian’s fine.” Caine’s voice hardened. “Now get ready. We’ll be ready to go in less than a minute.”

“Copy that.”

“I’ll need to inform Atkins of the situation. He just sent a proxy out asking for an update. I can’t stall him any longer.”

“Understood,” Dean said. “Wait until I get out of here. If Atkins thinks I’m about to bite the big one, he might try to launch the strike early. If I can finagle my way out of here, then you can tell him what’s going on. If I’m still alive, if I can still stay in the fight, the hostages still have a chance.”

“You got it.” Caine paused. “Twenty seconds out.”

You’re ready.

You can do this.

Dean dropped the mag from his M4, checked the rounds, and slammed it back home with a sharp click. He implemented a quick rack of the charging handle, verifying that the chamber was clear, and then slapped the forward assist.

You will do this.

Stoker’s tension was palpable, his unease reaching a breaking point. He glanced at Crisp, their eyes meeting in silent agreement. Blackwood was about to kick off whatever reckless stunt he’d cooked up this time.

“Captain,” Stoker wheezed. “Order the men to start dousing the place.”

Crips nodded, raised his radio to his lips, and ordered the mercs to dump the gas around the building.

Dean flexed his grip on the handle of his M4, ready to unleash a torrent of gunfire through the windows as soon as Caine’s man triggered the blackout.

“Ten seconds, Dean,” Caine whispered. “Good luck.”

Dean said nothing, waiting as he ticked down the time in his head.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

He coiled his finger around the trigger, the lights around the campus cutting out just as a high-pitched shrill cut through all the radios throughout JPL.

Go.

24

The screaming sound cracked through the airwaves outside the building. Dean had disabled the merc’s radio he was carrying, but the noise was still sharp, slicing into Dean’s skull.

Disruption.

Chaos.

Disorientation.

Use it!

Dean knew that the mercenaries outside—most likely stationed on every side of Building 303—were scrambling to adjust their comms. The shriek cut through Stoker and Crisp’s radios, causing them to toss them to the ground. The pain was instant, like ice picks stabbing their brains.

Their ears are probably ringing pretty good.

Great.

I hope it scrambles their goddamn brains.

The high-pitched shrill sustained—as Dean had requested—for several seconds before it was suddenly swallowed by the smooth, thunderous opening chords of “Immigrant Song” by Led Zeppelin. The contrast was jarring. Robert Plant’s voice screamed through the airwaves, cutting through like a battle cry.

Good choice.

I gotta give this Carlos guy a big cash tip after this is over.

As the radios blasted with the sounds of Jimmy Page’s electric riffs and Plant’s wail, Dean raised his M4 and fired blindly out a window, a relentless onslaught of gunfire. He pivoted his aim to the window on his left and drained an entire magazine before he slapped in another.

Keep going.

Don’t stop.

Make ’em work for it.

The music thundered as Dean’s hand clenched more tightly around the grip of his M4, feeling the rhythm. Moving to another window, he depleted another magazine and slapped in another. He went to yet another window, snapped his rifle up, and continued his relentless barrage of gunfire. The windowsill in front of him crumbled under the pressure. The rounds erupted in sharp bursts, splintering the glass and wood as a hail of lead went through the window toward the mercenaries outside. The recoil of the M4 pushed against Dean’s shoulder, but he stayed focused. His heart raced, but he was in the zone—an unstoppable force pushing back against Stoker and his nefarious minions outside.

I know you’re out there, Stoker.

You’re just beyond the threshold of the building, cowering and panicking.

Dean palmed one of the smoke grenades.

All you sons of bitches are mine.

“Captain Crisp!” Stoker hollered, crooking a finger toward the building as the thump-thump-thump of ’70s era hard rock kept coming over the airwaves. “Kill that son of a bitch!”

“All units,” Crisp barked into his radio. “Take him out. Now!”

Dean had emptied all but one mag for his M4, the roar still echoing in the air. The mercs outside were firing back, their rounds cracking through the walls and windows, but they all missed Dean—high and wide.

They’re panicking.

They don’t know what to do.

Dean gathered more of his smoke grenades.

Now’s the time.

He dashed from one window to another on the four sides of the building. One by one, he popped the pins on the grenades, smashed windows with his M4, and threw the grenades outside. Smoke now billowed on all four sides of the building’s perimeter. The smoke popped and hissed, bursting into thick, gray clouds that spread and accumulated.

Not yet.

Dean loaded up the last mag he had for his M4.

Wait until the cloud has thickened up.

He fired another series of shots into the haze, forcing the mercs to keep their heads down. Dean was sure he had hit a few of them—maybe even killed a couple because a pair of them had hollered out in pain.

The smoke around the building became thick, quickly swallowing the building in a dense cloud, obscuring everything in its wake as Led Zeppelin continued to blast over the airwaves.

Go, dude.

Dean sprinted toward the north exit of the building, his feet pushing off the floor with a burst of speed.

Now!

His boots pounded.

His adrenaline spiked.

Dean prayed to God or whoever on high was listening that he’d make it out alive.

As soon as Dean opened the north door, the air cracked with the sound of mercenaries firing, the bullets pinging off the outside walls.

Dean didn’t hesitate and burst through the doorway into the open air as he rattled off his M4 in a wide arc, the warm night air hitting him like a slap. He fired off a few more shots as he ran in a corkscrew pattern, putting as much distance between him and the building as possible.

Go.

Run.

Don’t stop.

Dean cut a glance to the west.

Don’t look back.

Run until you can’t run anymore.

Dean caught sight of two mercs on his left about twenty yards away, batting away the smoke with their hands as they choked on ragged breaths. He fired a short burst in their direction, taking them off of their feet and dropping them onto their backs.

Shit.

Dean gagged as smoke from the grenades infiltrated his lungs. He pushed forward, every step a small victory. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Building 303 looming like a crippled, bullet-riddled giant, its silhouette obscured by white smoke.

“Damn!” Woody shouted. “I thought we were dead.”

Shut up, shithead.

We’re not out of this yet.

More gunfire rang out. A couple mercenaries had regained their footing and were tracking Dean with their shots. He could feel the rounds whistling past him, but he didn’t pause. A pair of bullets punched into the back of his vest, causing him to lurch forward and fall to his knees, but he scrambled back up.

Shit!

Dean straightened his back, turned, and fired at the mercs, forcing them to disperse.

That stings like hell.

He heard footsteps and shouting as the mercenaries fumbled to find their target, still behind him, trying to catch up.

They’re losing ground.

They can’t get a clean shot.

Dean emptied his M4, tossed it, and pulled out his sidearm.

Go! Go! Go!

He continued to sprint west, his escape route—his path hopefully toward salvation.

You can’t outrun them for long.

Just put as much distance between them as you can.

A cluster of bullets thwacked into the concrete path beneath him, the sound of the impacts sending a chill up his spine. His adrenaline hit hard now, the air burning in his lungs, but he kept pushing.

One more block.

Dean eyed the cluster of buildings ahead—Building 230 about 100 yards away.

There it is.

His boots slapped the pavement, rhythmic and steady. He kept low, arms pumping feverishly, as bullets whizzed overhead.

Almost there.

Keep it up.

You’re about to pull this off.

Dean zigzagged, making sure the mercs struggled to follow.

I’ve gained some yardage.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw the mercenaries slowly closing in on him.

These guys are still a threat.

Dean’s hands tightened around his Glock. The plan was working, but he still needed to reach the building ahead of him. Once inside, he knew he’d likely be holed up again, trapped like he was before.

And we’ll start this whole thing all over again.

Dean coughed, gasping for air. He didn’t stop running, heart pounding as his lungs and muscles burned. The mercenaries’ voices were growing more distant now.

You’re getting away.

He was now twenty to twenty-five strides from the entrance to the building—Building 230. He fired his Glock over his shoulder, slowing down the mercs for a few moments. Without missing a beat, he charged forward, stormed inside, and sprinted deep into the building.

Out of sight.

Out of danger.

Dean slowed, pushing his back against a cold wall. He listened to the silence, letting the tension bleed out of his body.

“You did it, laddie,” Woody gibbered. “Well. Fucking. Done.”

Not acknowledging his Irish cohort’s praise, Dean flipped the toggle on his vest and called out to Caine. “It’s me, Mom,” he chuckled through raspy wheezes. “Made it home safe.”

25

The air in the SCIF—the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—on one side of the gymnasium was thick with tension. The moment Caine was cleared to enter, she walked in and immediately felt the suppressed anger and frustration radiating off Holloway. His jaw was clenched as Atkins raged about launching the airstrike early, slamming his fist into the table every few seconds to punctuate his point. At the far end of the table, Warren Novak sat impassively, saying nothing. His eyes shifted back and forth between Atkins and Holloway, assessing the situation, waiting for his turn to speak.

Caine paused for a moment, lingering in the doorway. After a few moments of waiting, Atkins flashed her an icy stare.

“What is it, Agent Caine?”

Caine cleared her throat. “Blackwood just escaped the building he was holed up in on the campus,” she said, her voice cutting through the tension. “He managed to sidestep an assault by Stoker and his men.”

Atkins’ nostrils flared. He leaned forward, his eyes brimming with barely contained fury. “Explain.”

Caine told him the story in full detail, how Blackwood had barricaded himself in a building before concocting a ruse with her to manipulate the Wi-Fi Major Ethan Stoker had allowed Dean to use before he shot his way out of the situation.

“Christ,” Atkins hissed, his face turning a deep shade of red. “Blackwood was supposed to prevent this entire situation from escalating.”

“To be fair,” Holloway chimed in, “the situation is quite unprecedented. When I tapped Blackwood to take part in this op, we understood that his method of approach to this dilemma would be unorthodox.”

Atkins held up his hand. “Enough.” He flashed a heated gaze at Caine, shaking his head. “Blackwood has done nothing more than exacerbate this entire situation.” His voice rose, his anger measured. “I take it he’s out there, somewhere on the campus, puttering around taking potshots at Stoker and his men?”

Caine didn’t flinch. She knew what kind of man Atkins was—volatile, unpredictable—but she didn’t want to piss him off anymore than he already was.

“He's still on the campus, yes,” Caine said, her gaze hard. “He’s holed up in a building on the west side of JPL—and he’s alive, which is more than I can say for most of the people Stoker’s already taken out.”

Holloway shifted. “How many of Stoker’s people did Dean take out?”

“Blackwood doesn’t have a tally. He is certain, however, that he has taken some of Stoker’s men off the playing field. Again, he’s alive, so he still has the ability to operate. There are some more moves he can make here.”

Atkins shot up from his chair, knocking it to the floor. “I don’t give a damn if Blackwood’s alive. I’ve had enough of this shit. Blackwood was supposed to talk Stoker down, not shoot up the whole campus. We’re launching that damned air strike within the hour. I want this thing finished.”

“Jesus Christ,” Holloway groaned as he rose from his seat. “You’ve been pushing that agenda here from the jump, Atkins.”

“We’re wasting time.” Atkins pointed to the door. “We need to shut this thing down once and for all.”

“What about the hostages?” Caine asked. “You’re not seriously considering wiping out innocent people.”

Holloway leaned forward slightly, his voice low and steady. “Caine’s right. That isn’t an option.” He plunged his finger onto the table. “The air strike needs to be scratched.”

Atkins braced the table. “You’re not in charge here, Holloway.”

“Blackwood can fix this,” Holloway stated confidently. “He’s still our best chance. I know him.” Holloway tamped down his urge to smirk. “He’s got a proclivity for pulling miracles out of his hat at the last second.”

Sneering, Atkins whipped his head toward Holloway. “You’re still backing a rogue fugitive? After everything that’s happened? After the slew of destruction that little asshole has left in his wake over the years?”

Caine’s gaze flicked between them. The tension was suffocating, but this wasn’t the time for petty squabbles. “We’re getting nowhere here, gentleman.” She settled her sights on Atkins. “And if you launch that airstrike, you’ll kill everyone on that campus—the hostages, the people trapped in the crossfire, and Blackwood. If we go that route, the press will have a heyday, and the public will react. Questions will be asked, and the answers I’ll be forced to give will put us all in a very bad position.”

Atkins’ eyes burned with fury. “I’m not waiting around for Blackwood to pull another stunt. You think I’m going to let him sabotage this? We’ve waited long enough. We have no idea what the hell Stoker is up to. For all we know, he could be prepping to set off a goddamn nuclear bomb inside that facility.”

“Blackwood—” Caine began.

“Blackwood,” Atkins insisted, “is finished. We will launch that airstrike. Tell him to do what he can in terms of the hostages, but he’s got one hour to make it happen.”

Novak, who had been silent up to this point, spoke up. “We don’t want to be the ones responsible for killing civilians, but we also don’t have the luxury of time anymore. If Blackwood’s not the solution, then we’re back to square one.” He nodded at Atkins. “I agree with Atkins. The airstrike should commence.”

Caine’s jaw slackened, furious that Novak would back such a play. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing, Novak.”

“Considering how untenable the circumstances have become, I believe the air strike is warranted.” Novak flashed a lopsided grin and jerked his head back and forth. “The last thing we need is for this situation to spill out onto the streets. I don’t think the citizens in this lovely city here would like that all too much.” He let out an inappropriate hearty chuckle, doubling over as he attempted to stifle it.

Caine’s jaw slackened. This man Novak is—self-admittedly—on the spectrum, but his complete lack of empathy or decorum over the potential deaths of innocent people—his former colleagues—make me very uneasy.

“This isn’t a game, Novak,” she blurted out. “You know those hostages inside that campus, and even the JPL people who have turned sympathetic to Stoker.”

By that point, Holloway was fuming. He fixated on Novak, examining him with a sour look as though he were a sideshow act. “I want to get back to the topic I initially wanted to discuss when we first came in here.”

“Make it quick,” Atkins insisted, checking his watch. “Your buddy Blackwood is running short on time here.”

“John Andress.”

“Who?” Atkins looked confused.

Holloway motioned to Novak. “Andress used to be a contractor for JPL at the same time our friend Novak was there. Andress then started up a company called Citadyne, a competitor of Sentinel Dynamics, and stopped contracting with JPL.”

Novak shrugged. “This is public knowledge. I don’t see what kind of bearing it has on the current situation.”

“Because you didn’t let me finish.” Holloway straightened his back. “According to a source I contacted⁠—”

“Which source?” Atkins cut in.

Holloway shot up his middle finger and continued. “This source found out that John Andress visited Major Ethan Emanuel Stoker when he was in Leavenworth. Andress—or someone else—tried to scrub the visit from the record, but,” he huffed, “we all know how hard it is these days to leave no digital breadcrumbs.”

Atkins’ fists were clenched, but he sank back onto his chair, clearly intrigued. “Where is Andress now?”

“Well, just before we walked in here, I was informed by the same source—who’s still working to piece the story together—that Andress died of carbon monoxide poisoning in his home forty-eight hours before Major Stoker launched his attack on the JPL campus.” Holloway stared at Novak, his gaze intense. “I’m just curious if you could help us make sense of this and what possible role John Andress might have had in this whole mess.”

All eyes in the room locked on Novak, which clearly unsettled him, judging by the way he fidgeted nervously in his seat and flicked his hands in the air.

“Andress’s company, Citadyne,” Holloway went on, his tone measured and sharp, “was your number-one competitor before you orchestrated a hostile acquisition, absorbing it into Sentinel Dynamics. You essentially absorbed Citadyne’s AI division into your own, eliminating the competition in one fell swoop.”

“That’s business.” Novak giggled. “I won’t apologize for outwitting or outsmarting Andress, no matter how good a man he is.” He held up a finger, wincing. “Was.”

“Tell me more,” Atkins pressed Holloway. “If it’s true that Andress visited Major Stoker in Leavenworth, that’s worth exploring.”

Holloway nodded. “I’ll need a little more time on that.”

“Well,” Atkins tapped his watch, “you’ve got less than an hour. Frankly, that’s not enough time to uncover anything of real value. Even if Andress is involved—and right now, that’s just speculation—figuring out his role can wait until after we’ve launched the airstrike.”

“Atkins—”

“One hour.” Atkins stood and walked toward the door. “Clear out Blackwood. Hell, leave him there if you have to. I don’t care. Just make sure he understands what’s coming.”

Caine could see the internal battle raging inside Holloway. The closer they got to the one-hour mark, the harder it would be to keep him controlled. Her eyes flicked to the clock on the wall as though willing the minutes to slow down.

26

Two mercs from the Omega team draped canvas tarps over the bodies of the two Templars who had been killed as they stood next to hostage Robin Mills outside Building 303. Stoker stared at the bodies impassively, waiting until the members of the Omega team had crossed themselves and recited a prayer before he ordered Crisp to rally every man still standing.

Stoker glanced at the bullet-pocked building behind him, a grim reminder of the chaos that had unfolded. The situation was one that Blackwood shouldn’t have survived—but he had.

Fucking Blackwood.

A cough stirred deep in Stoker’s chest. He fought it back, suppressing the burning in his throat.

How do you do it?

How the hell do you always manage to survive?

“We have eight men left,” Stoker informed Crisp, disbelief glazing his words. “I want them positioned at the four corners of this campus. Lock this place down.”

“What about Blackwood?” Crisp protested, his heated gaze fixed on the building at the western side of the campus. “He’s holed up inside 230. We could⁠—”

“What?” Stoker’s eyes widened as he stepped closer to Crisp. “Have a repeat of the events that just unfolded? Sacrifice more men?”

“Sir …” Crisp eased up on the bite in his tone. “There’s no way Blackwood could survive another assault like that. He got lucky.”

“He always manages to get lucky.” Stoker waved his hand dismissively at Crisp. “Every time. No matter the situation. He’s a goddamn freakshow anomaly.” He laughed, unable to stifle it. “Little prick has always been a royal pain in the ass. I give him credit though. He has a talent for survival.”

“Give me a team, sir,” Crisp almost begged. “Let me go into that building right now, pull Blackwood out, and stake his fucking head on the front lawn.”

By that point, the conversation had caused the heads of several Templar members to turn. Stoker, catching their concerned looks, pulled Crisp out of earshot. “Pull it together,” he ordered, his voice dropping to a low, controlled whisper. “These men believe that I, the Bishop, and you, my second-in-command, are unwavering servants of the Lord.”

“I can’t keep this charade up anymore, sir,” Crisp admitted. “Blackwood is tearing this place apart, piece by piece, and we’re losing control.” He took a step closer to his superior. “We need to contact our man on the outside—the benefactor. We need to insist that he pays us the rest of our money, cuts you and me loose, and lets the rest of these freaks handle Blackwood.” He gestured at the Templars scattered across the campus. “They’re ready to die tonight, sir. Let them.”

Stoker’s stare could have burned a hole through steel. “I want Blackwood.”

“Sir—”

“I. Want. Blackwood.” Stoker’s voice was firm, low. He crooked a finger at Crisp, his face hardened with resolve. “And I will get him, one way or another. As for the money, I don’t give a shit. You can keep it all. If you want to contact the benefactor and tell him to pony up, have at it.”

For the first time, Crisp saw the mask slip. The Major’s usual composure, the unshakable steel beneath his military bearing, was starting to dissipate. The return of Corporal Blackwood had rattled him in a way no one had seen before. Stoker was a man who had long ago made peace with the inevitability of death, but the situation with Blackwood was different.

It was personal.

“Sir,” Crisp began, his voice strained, “you can’t be serious.”

“I’m as serious as cancer, Captain.” Stoker chortled darkly, the sound hollow. “Normally, when someone says that, it’s just a figure of speech. It just so happens to be true in my case.”

Crisp swallowed hard, trying to maintain his composure as unease settled like lead in his gut. “I need orders here, Major.” He met Stoker’s eyes, searching for clarity, any hint of the man who had led him and so many others through countless battles. “Tell me what we’re doing here, sir. Whatever the command may be, I’ll follow it.”

Stoker took a breath, his hand heavy on Crisp’s shoulder. There was something final in the gesture. “Understand this, Captain,” Stoker said, his voice steady despite his strong words. “I will be staying here. I plan on seeing this through to the end.” He gestured with a circular motion toward the campus. “Blackwood has interrupted and will continue to interrupt our plans here tonight. As for the CIA and the other clowns running the show, sooner or later they’ll launch an airstrike on this facility. We knew that would be their final play. That was how you and I planned on covering our tracks so we could exfil cleanly.”

“That plan can still work, Major. You and I⁠—”

“You,” Stoker interrupted, his tone cutting through Crisp’s words like a blade, “will evacuate JPL the moment our benefactor deposits the final funds into our accounts.” He raised his shoulders as though it didn’t matter. “I’ll request that he transfer the funds from my account to yours. All of it. Every single cent.”

“Sir, I …” Crisp stammered, struggling to comprehend. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“I’ll tell you what’s happening,” Stoker said, his eyes hardening. “I will not run. I will not leave this campus.”

Crisp blinked, the shock visible on his face. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I’ll go after Blackwood with the rest of the men we still have at our disposal.” Stoker’s voice was cold and resolute. “I don’t expect to come out of this alive. I’ve made my peace with that. I have terminal cancer, Crisp. The clock is ticking, and it’s ticking down fast.” He stared at the building where Blackwood was holed up. “I’m not leaving until Blackwood is dealt with. I plan on going after him and finishing what he started all those years ago. This is my final mission.” He held his head high. “I’d rather go out fighting than hiding.”

Crisp’s voice faltered, the burden of the words settling between them. “You can’t mean that, sir. You⁠—”

“I mean every word of it, Captain.” Stoker’s gaze softened just slightly as he placed a hand on Crisp’s shoulder again, the touch almost fatherly. “But I will tell you this. I am sorry for what happened earlier. For letting Blackwood get under my skin. For losing my composure in front of the men. It was my mandate to lead with honor, setting an example for you and the other men under my command to follow. I should never have strayed from that.”

Crisp took a deep breath, nodding stiffly. “I’ll follow your orders, Major. If this is what you want, I can’t stop you.” His eyes widened. “But this is a hell of a way to go.”

Stoker glanced up at the sky, his expression unreadable, a mask of stoic resolve. “It’s the only way I know how, son.” He clapped Crisp on the back. “And knowing I’ll take Blackwood down with me—that offers me a bit of comfort.”

With that, Stoker turned away, leaving Crisp standing in the growing darkness as the air around them seemed to thrum with the imminent chaos that would follow.

27

Dean’s boots clattered softly on the tile floors as he made his way through the dark, quiet hallways of Building 230. The silence felt unnatural after the chaos of the earlier firefight. All he could hear was the faint hum of the building’s air conditioner.

I don’t like this.

His hand brushed against the wall as he moved, the sensation grounding him as he ascended the staircase and climbed up to the top floor.

Why the hell aren’t Stoker and his men trying to get in here?

He reached the top floor and moved carefully toward the window. His heart thumped, and he fought to steady his breath as he peered through the blinds. The view stretched out before him—an expanse of campus he hadn’t seen since the fight broke out. The sprawling complex now seemed distant, almost unreal.

Dean’s gaze shifted from one corner of the campus to the next. He clocked some mercenaries spreading out, some moving north, others heading south. Two made their way west and one headed east, but none of them were heading toward his position.

The realization hit him like a cold wave.

They’re not coming for me.

They’re spreading out, taking positions.

The hunt is over … for now.

“Come in, Blackwood,” Caine’s voice crackled over his earpiece.

“Blackwood here.”

“You all right?”

Dean eyed the Glock in his hand, the only firearm he now had at his disposal. “Just chilling out for a minute.”

“Where are you now?”

“Building 230.”

“Do you have eyes on Stoker?” Caine asked. “Any of his men?”

A second appraisal of the JPL campus through the window confirmed what Dean already knew. Stoker and his men were fanning out, reestablishing a perimeter around the complex they’d initially secured.

“Stoker called off his dogs,” Dean said. “I’m not sure what they’re up to.”

“Any theories?”

“I don’t know.” Dean stepped back from the window, his eyes still sweeping the campus. “I find it hard to believe he’s pulling back. He’s probably regrouping, retasking his men, figuring out a new approach. I need to try to get eyes on him somehow.”

“We have more important problems at the moment.”

“Let me guess.” Dean cracked his neck. “Atkins.”

“He’s pushing for an airstrike.” Caine paused, the silence heavy with concern. “He’s set it for one hour from now.”

The words hit Dean like a punch in the gut.

An airstrike.

The whole campus will be leveled in minutes.

The hostages—all the people who are still alive—won’t stand a chance.

Dean steeled himself, his mind already working through the possibilities. “Any chance you can get that pudgy bastard to rethink that option?”

“Negative,” Caine replied firmly. “He doesn’t care about the collateral damage. He’s done waiting for us to resolve the situation the way we were hoping to.”

Dean took a slow breath.

There has to be a way to stop this.

“I can’t let him do that,” he muttered as he started, pacing. “As long as I’m still alive⁠—”

“You’re not gonna stop this by yourself, Dean,” Caine warned, a hint of frustration creeping into her tone. “Look, I’ve got faith in you. Somehow you managed to make it out of that building alive, but I don’t know if you can pull off the same miracle twice.”

“I know that,” Dean snapped, grinding his teeth, thinking of his options. “Maybe if I can get to Stoker and talk to him, I can buy the hostages some time.

The silence on the other end of the line hung for a moment before Caine responded. “You’re talking about negotiating with Stoker?”

“I am.”

“After everything that’s happened between you two, what possible bargaining chip do you have to offer him?”

Dean’s eyes darted to the building across the way, the one where the hostages were being held. He could almost feel their fear, the heaviness of their panic and horror overwhelming him.

“Caine is right, lad,” Woody said. “Stoker hates your guts.”

He does.

“And that airstrike is coming.”

I’m aware.

“Then short of turning yourself over to him—” Woodie didn’t finish.

Dean smiled.

“Oh, God,” Woody groaned. “I should’ve kept my mouth shut.” He let out a low, guttural groan.

“Nice job, Woody. Well done, you dumb shyte.”

It could work.

Dean checked his pulse, breathed, and nodded.

But I sure as shit am going to get myself killed.

“Blackwood,” Caine called out. “What are you thinking?”

Dean glanced outside again, his mind running through every scenario, every possible way to gain Stoker’s attention.

This won’t be easy.

And it won’t be pretty.

“I’m going to barter with him,” Dean said, voice steady as he made the decision. “I’ll offer myself up. His men can get me, and that will get the hostages out.”

Caine’s response was immediate. “You’re talking about giving yourself up to him? Just like that?”

“I am.”

“There has to be another way.”

“Me for the hostages,” Dean said. “As soon as Stoker promises to uphold his end of the deal, I’ll step out of this building, stand twenty yards away from Stoker, and hand myself over to him when I see all the hostages escorted off the campus. If Atkins decides to launch the airstrike, so be it.”

“Maybe you can get Stoker to surrender by using the fact that there will be an airstrike,” Caine suggested. “If he thinks⁠—”

“He doesn’t care about dying.”

“Dean—”

“He’ll take the deal.” Dean closed his eyes. “I’m not walking out of here alive anyway. I’ll be a liability once that airstrike hits. I’m gonna give him a way out—take me and let the hostages go. It’ll buy all of us some time. That’s the only play I’ve got.”

The silence on the other end of the line stretched out. Dean could almost feel Caine’s thoughts racing.

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” Caine muttered after a long pause. “But you’re right. If you can make Stoker understand this, maybe he’ll take the deal. We don’t have time to find another solution.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed as he watched the shadows of the mercenaries moving throughout the campus. The next hour would either make or break the entire mission. He couldn’t waste time second-guessing.

“Okay, I’ll make contact with him,” Dean said, pushing down his rising anxiety. “But I’ll need a way to get to him. You still have eyes on him?”

“We’ve got eyes on his position,” Caine replied. “We’ll guide you. But you need to move fast. The airstrike is still on the table, and we can’t afford to let it happen.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “I’ll make this deal happen.”

“Just make sure you’re thinking this through, Blackwood.” Caine’s voice was soft but tinged with worry. “We can’t afford to lose you too.”

Dean looked out the window one last time, scanning the campus, knowing that time was running out. He didn’t answer Caine. He couldn’t afford to. There was no turning back now. This was it.

“Blackwood?” Caine’s voice came through again, a reminder of the stakes. “Do you copy?”

“Copy,” Dean said, his voice unwavering. “I’m on my way.”

He moved quickly, making his way down the stairwell, his every step purposeful, ignoring his own oppressive thoughts. He wasn’t sure if he believed his own words anymore, but it was all he had. If he didn’t get to Stoker, convince him to trade the hostages for him before the airstrike hit, everything would be lost.

The hostages were still alive, but for how long? Dean didn’t know. What he did know was that he couldn’t let them die because he failed to act.

He checked his sidearm, steadying himself for what was to come. He had one chance to stop this. One chance to make Stoker see reason.

The rest of the world seemed a blur, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Dean focused solely on one goal—getting the hostages off the campus alive. He was prepared to do whatever it took, even if it meant sacrificing his own life in exchange. He’d already accepted that if that happened, he would never see his kids again, never see his friends, never see the people he loved. The same reasoning that drove him to flee the country in the first place now guided his decision to put his life in Stoker’s hands. It was for the best, for the safety of everyone he knew.

Dean pressed-checked the rounds in his Glock. That’s all I have left to give.

28

If Stoker wanted to die, Crisp knew he had no choice but to honor his superior’s final wish. After everything they had been through—after all Blackwood had put them through—leaving the Major to face Blackwood alone filled Crisp with an unwavering resolve. It would be a one-on-one confrontation where the Major, a master of lethal combat, would likely emerge victorious. Crisp was confident that Stoker would kill Blackwood and tear him apart limb by limb, a fate warranted because of Blackwood’s misguided sense of honor.

Outside of Building 106 on the southwest part of the campus, Crisp eyed a sniper posted on top of the building. Crisp pulled the secure, encrypted satellite phone from his pocket. The device—one of two, with Stoker holding the other—was customized for covert operations with military-grade protection, designed and delivered by the benefactor—someone neither Stoker nor Crisp had ever met. Using a secure, encrypted messaging app set up by the benefactor—its source code a mystery to both men—Crisp sent one final message.

All remaining funds, along with those in the Bishop’s possession, need to be transferred to my account.

Crisp hit send and then waited for the benefactor’s reply. Seconds later, the response came. Why?

Change in plan, Crisp explained. The Bishop is remaining behind. Confirm these orders with the Bishop.

A moment passed before the benefactor replied, Is the campus secure?

Confirmed.

Hostages?

Still under lockdown, Crisp texted. I will exfil here shortly.

Confirming with the Bishop, the benefactor said. Please hold.

Several tense seconds passed, time Crisp used to ensure the remaining Templars had secured the perimeter around the campus.

Done, the benefactor finally messaged back. Check account to confirm.

As promised, 200 million now sat in Crisp’s offshore account. In seconds, he had gone from a disgraced military captain without a country to a wealthy man whose future now brimmed with possibilities—but it brought him no joy. Flicking his eyes toward Building 230, he felt something heavy settle in his chest. The Major was on his final path now, a man marching toward his inevitable end without Crisp, his second in command, at his side. The remorse and guilt gnawed at Crisp.

I can go anywhere.

Be anyone I want to be.

He stuffed the satellite phone in his pocket and took a stroll toward the eastern end of the campus, resolved to shake hands with the Major one last time.

Crisp approached Stoker who stood about 200 yards from the entrance of Building 230, flanked by two Templars. Stoker stood tall, unmoving, his posture rigid. The two Templars beside him were on alert, scanning the surroundings, their rifles held with practiced precision.

Crisp took his time approaching Stoker, his synchronized steps moving without panic.

“Major,” Crisp said as he stopped just a few feet away, his voice even, betraying no emotion. “It’s done. The money’s been transferred.”

Stoker didn’t turn around immediately, but when he did, his demeanor was calm, unreadable, as always. The years of military service had etched that expression—stoic, unmoving—onto his face.

“I confirmed everything with the benefactor,” Stoker replied, voice low, like the significance of what was happening was still settling in. “We’re good to go here.”

Crisp surveyed his surroundings, biding his time. “Campus perimeter is secure. Hostages are still contained.” He paused, his voice flat. “I’ll execute the exfiltration shortly.”

Stoker’s gaze didn’t shift from Building 230. “I trust you remember the extraction plan?”

Crisp gave a curt nod. “Affirmative, sir. I’ll move out through the wooded area to the west. I’ll maintain a low profile and avoid direct engagement unless necessary.”

Stoker’s eyes flicked over to the building holding the hostages. “Very well.” He faced Crisp. “Thank you, Captain. For everything.” He flashed a wry grin. “Go and live your life, son. You’ve earned your reprieve.”

A tension hung in the air. Crisp had followed Stoker into countless missions, standing by his side through fire and blood.

“I can still remain behind, sir,” Crisp said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to face Blackwood alone.”

Stoker’s eyes shimmered with resolve. “This is my fight, Captain.”

The finality in Stoker’s tone hit Crisp harder than he expected. It felt like the closing of a chapter, one he wasn’t ready to turn.

Stoker’s eyes flicked toward him, unreadable. Without a word, he motioned for Crisp to leave.

“Sir, I'd like to be on comms while you execute the final strike on Blackwood,” Crisp said, his tone firm. “I want to hear the confirmation that he’s neutralized.”

Stoker breathed deeply as he considered the request. “I’ll patch you into the net via a secure channel,” he replied, his voice clipped. “I’ll assign you a direct feed to the comm relay. You’ll get real-time confirmation when the job’s done.”

The pair stood in silence, knowing this moment marked the end of both an illustrious career and a decades-long friendship.

Saying nothing more, Crisp extended his hand. Stoker took it without hesitation, their fingers locking in a brief but firm handshake. The gesture wasn’t just professional—it was personal. The two men had fought together, bled together, and now they were parting ways.

“Good luck, Major,” Crisp said, his voice even as he snapped a salute to his superior officer. “Rangers lead the way.”

Stoker gave a small nod. “All the way.” He straightened his back and returned the salute. “Be well, my friend.”

Without another word, Crisp turned on his heels and walked away from the Major. As he moved toward the western exit, he allowed himself one last glance behind him. Stoker was coordinating with two Templars, drawing a blueprint of his final attack against Blackwood.

Crisp’s heart tightened in his chest.

The Major’s fate is sealed.

You’re powerless to change it.

He flared his nostrils.

There’s nothing you can do.

Crisp thought of the 200 million in his offshore account. He wondered how he’d use it and where he’d go, but the possibilities felt empty.

Move on, Captain.

Crisp checked the rounds in his M4 and jogged toward the exfiltration point.

Go and live your life.

29

Forty-five minutes left, Dean mused as he checked the time on Holloway’s watch. You need to make the call.

He keyed the radio he had taken from the merc, his hand steady despite the situation. “Major.”

Static cut through the line, followed by Stoker’s gravelly voice. “I’m here, Corporal.”

“I’m ready to make a deal.”

“I figured you would.”

Dean exhaled slowly, suppressing the urge to think about the airstrike that would obliterate them all in forty-five minutes. Caine had said he could use it to leverage Stoker, but Dean knew better. His former superior wouldn’t bend. Not even the threat of total destruction would sway Stoker’s resolve. If the world was on the brink of ending, it wouldn’t stop Stoker from going down swinging.

“You want my life, Major,” Dean continued. “And I’m offering it. In exchange for the hostages.”

Silence held sway on the other end. Dean could almost hear Stoker’s contemplation, but it didn’t last long.

“Done,” Stoker said. “How do you wish to proceed?”

Surprised and ecstatic, Dean told Stoker, “I want the hostages extracted from the building, no escorts. Have them move toward the west exit. It’s the route I came in on.”

“You’re truly willing to lay down your life for these strangers, Corporal?” Stoker said. “Just like that?”

Dean nodded. “I am.”

“Noble.” Stoker huffed. “It will be done within the hour.”

“You have fifteen minutes.”

“Negative.”

Dean checked his watch—forty minutes remained until the strike. “They need to leave the campus now.”

“Why the rush?”

“These are my terms, Major.”

“I’ll allow you to surrender in exchange for the hostages, Corporal,” Stoker said. “But you don’t get to control the timing or method of their release.”

“Major—”

“Negative on your last request, Blackwood. The hostages will be released in one hour. Once I confirm they’re clear, we’ll discuss the terms of your surrender.”

You have to tell him.

You have to.

“Stoker,” Dean grumbled, “the CIA is planning on launching an airstrike on this facility in less than forty minutes. There’s no stopping it. Believe me, I’ve tried. All of us will be wiped out wholesale unless we move now.”

Crisp, moving through the tunnel on the far end of the campus, stiffened upon hearing on his radio Blackwood’s announcement that an airstrike was in the process of being waged against the campus.

Is he bluffing?

Crisp examined the radio in his hand, a cold, sickening sensation creeping up his spine.

Maybe he’s not.

If the Agency was adhering to any kind of protocol, they will initiate a full-scale ordnance deployment on this compound.

“Sir,” Crisp heard Blackwood's voice crackle over the radio, direct and uncompromising. “Clear these hostages out of here. Time is running out. If you want to go out in a blaze of hellfire with me, that’s fine. I’ll give you your shot at redemption, but those hostages won’t be collateral damage. If they stay, I’ll hole up right here, and you and I can watch the fireworks from separate vantage points.”

Crisp tightened his grip on the radio, his mind racing.

Fuck this.

He did an about-face in the tunnel.

To hell with the money.

To hell with it all.

He broke into a sprint.

I’m going down with the Major.

Thoughts of his family, children, and friends darted through Dean’s mind as he waited for Stoker’s reply. There had been plenty of close scrapes with death throughout his life, times when he was sure his end was near, but this time, it felt inevitable.

“I believe you, Corporal,” Stoker said, his laughter evident. “Leave it to the Agency to use a hammer instead of a scalpel.” He held the line. “How much time do we have left?”

Dean glanced at Holloway’s watch. “Thirty-eight minutes. If you initiate the release of the hostages now, they can move to the extraction point. Provide them with the coordinates. I’ll notify my people on the outside that they’re in transit. Once the hostages are free and clear of the compound, I’ll link up with you at a location and time of your choosing.”

Several moments passed. Each second was critical—time the hostages needed to clear the campus.

“Stoker,” Dean spoke into his radio. “They have to leave now.”

“All right,” Stoker conceded. “I’ll send the order.”

Dean toggled his line to Caine. “Caine,” he said. “The hostages will be released.”

“You’re kidding me,” she replied. “Stoker went for it?”

“I knew he would. The hostages will be let go shortly. I’ve informed Stoker to allow them to head toward the tunnel on the same end of the campus I entered. Dispatch teams should intercept and extract them on the road I came in on.”

“Understood. I’ll inform Holloway and Atkins. I’ll try to get Atkins to abort the airstrike.”

“Keep me posted,” Dean said, his eyes locking on Building 301 where the hostages were kept. He watched two Templars sprint toward the entrance. “Either way, it looks like Stoker and I will have to have a little face-to-face here shortly.”

“Blackwood.” Caine paused. “Be careful.”

“Just pick up those hostages. Let me know when they’re safe.”

Dean ended the call and stepped back, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Building 301. Time seemed to stretch as he waited. Moments later, he saw over a hundred hostages burst from the entrance, Templars firing their weapons into the air and shouting for them to run.

Good.

Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

It’s done.

“I’ve abided by your wish, Corporal,” Stoker called out over the airwaves. “Now you will honor your end of the deal.”

“As long as it’s just you and me, Major,” Dean replied. “I don’t want any of your slack-jawed lackeys interfering. Cut them loose. Clear them out of here.”

“Oh, I will.”

Gazing at the retreating hostages, Dean stood motionless, his eyes locked on the scene unfolding on the JPL campus. The hostages flooded the campus like a river breaking through a dam, some of them hollering at the top of their lungs and others crying in both relief and fear.

“They’re out of here, son,” Stoker said.

Dean, seeing the last of the hostages disappear into the night, nodded. “Good. Now call off your men.”

“Will do,” Stoker replied with a snicker. “Just a heads-up. You might not like how this next part unfolds.”

Dean watched as the eight remaining Templars, one by one, began congregating in a grassy open area outside Building 301. Stoker’s relentless lap dogs all dropped their weapons with unceremonious thuds and formed a tight circle. As if on command, they kneeled, heads bowed in what looked like silent reverence.

“What the hell?” Dean whispered. “What are these shitheads doing?”

One Templar, slapping a magazine into his M5, stood up, moved back, and mumbled something to the men who were on their knees. Dean couldn’t make out what he said.

“Oh, hell!” Woody shouted. “He’s going to⁠—”

I know.

Dean’s eyes widened as the Templar swung his rifle up. With one fluid motion, he unleashed a rapid burst of gunfire, sending an arc of bullets ripping through the seven men bowing on the ground. He emptied the entire magazine. All seven Templars were dead.

“Jesus Christ, Stoker!” Dean hollered into the radio. “What the hell is this?”

“Finality,” Stoker replied.

Dean looked back at the Templar who had executed the men. He dropped his rifle, pulled out his sidearm, and held it flush against his head.

With no hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

His body crumbled to the ground.

Stoker and Dean were now the last two men on the campus.

“Okay,” Stoker said, his voice steady. “It’s time to finish what you started all those years ago. Meet me on Ranger Road just south of Building 180.”

Dean palmed his Glock and began walking. “Copy that, Major.” He chambered a round into his weapon, determined. “I’m on my way.”

30

Caine rushed through the temporary command center, navigating her way through the chaos. The gym bustled with agents from various agencies, each one shouting orders, working with urgency, trying to make sense of the rapidly changing situation. Radios crackled, phones rang, and loud, tense conversation filled the room.

“Atkins! Holloway!” Caine barked, spotting the two men near the far corner of the room. Atkins was hunched over a laptop, typing away. Holloway stood beside him, speaking to someone on his cell phone.

“The hostages are out,” Caine said, grinning from one ear to the other. “Dean got them clear. Units are on their way to pick them up.”

Atkins narrowed his eyes. “They’re out?”

“They’re out.” Caine nodded. “They’re in the tunnel where Blackwood went in.”

Atkins didn’t stop typing, his thoughts unreadable. “Once the units pick them up, we’ll proceed with the airstrike.”

Caine felt a surge of frustration. “Are you listening to me?” she snapped, stepping closer. “You can’t just wipe the place off the map. Dean did his part. The hostages are safe.”

Holloway shot a worried glance at Caine. Atkins looked at her with an almost placid countenance.

“We’ll talk about it after the strike, Caine,” Atkins replied. “The mission is not over. Stoker and the Templars are still in there. I’m not risking sending in any more people to try to take them out like we did with the SEAL incursion.”

Caine stepped forward, hands planted on the desk in front of Atkins. “You can’t just drop a bomb on the place now. Blackwood is still in there.”

Atkins leaned back and held up his hands. “He knew the risks when he signed up for the mission.”

Holloway, who had been quiet until now, grabbed Atkins by the arm. “Call off the airstrike!”

“Negative.” Atkins shook off Holloway’s grip. “We’re taking these fuckers out once and for all.”

“God damn you!” Holloway seized Atkins by his shirt, lifted him out of his chair, and slammed him into a wall. “Call off the airstrike.”

“Get your hands off of me, you son of a bitch!”

“I swear to God, Atkins.” Holloway whipped the Glock G4 out of his hip holster and stuck it into Atkins’ gut. “If you don’t call this thing off, you’ll be shitting lead for a month.”

Sweat peppered Atkins’ forehead. His body trembled, his voice lacquered with nerves. “I’m your superior, Holloway! As soon as this is finished, I’m going to make damn sure⁠—”

“Dead men,” Holloway removed the business end of the weapon and pushed it against Atkins’ forehead, “can’t give orders, fat boy.” He pushed his nose against Atkins’, his stare unwavering. “Now call off the goddamn strike. Dean is going to finish this, and he’s going to finish it his way.”

Good God, Caine mused. Holloway’s picked up a lot of bad habits from his friend.

Atkins stared at both of them for a long moment. Finally, he relented. “I’ll call off the strike.” He waited until Holloway lowered the Glock before saying, “When this is over, you and I⁠—”

“Fuck you,” Holloway snapped. “Just do as you’re told.”

Caine’s relief was palpable as she watched Atkins scamper off and dish out orders to various men and women around the room. “Thanks, Holloway,” she whispered. “I’ve been waiting for someone to stick it to this guy for a while.”

“I might’ve lost my job,” Holloway grumbled, holstering his weapon. “At least we bought Dean some time.”

Before Caine could reply, a crackling noise from her comms interrupted, followed by Dean’s voice: “It’s me.”

Caine thumbed the transmit button. “What’s your status?”

“All of Stoker’s men are dead.” Dean paused. “Stoker …” He sighed. “Stoker just had all of them executed. Every last one of them.”

Caine met Holloway’s stare, the pair trying to process what they had just heard.

“It’s just me and Stoker now,” Dean continued “I’m headed to link up with him.”

Caine’s eyes narrowed, the tightness in her chest deepening. “Blackwood, wait a second. Atkins is calling off the airstrike.”

“I have to head out there. If I don’t give Stoker what he wants, he might do something drastic. He’s bent. He’s lost his goddamn mind. For all I know, he might try to chase after the hostages and pick a few of them off if I don’t face him.” Dean’s tone hardened. “This ends tonight.”

“Blackwood.” Caine knew full well Dean would do what he was setting out to do.

“I have to finish this,” Dean said. “Tell Holloway I’ll get his watch back to him in a little bit.”

With that, the call terminated. Caine paced the floor, cutting the occasional glance at Holloway who remained silent, his face masked with fear and sadness.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Caine said. “We have to sit by and wait for Dean to tell us that he’s dealt with Stoker.”

“Yeah.” Holloway nodded, his voice filled with defeat. “You’re right.”

“We need to move fast and pick up those hostages in the meantime.” Caine glanced around the room, curious as to where Novak had gone. “Where the heck is Warren Novak?”

Inside the command center, Novak loitered near a workstation, fidgeting nervously with the buttons of his shirt. He looked agitated, his face pinched in frustration as his unfocused eyes darted around the room. Every now and then, he muttered something under his breath.

Caine approached him cautiously, offering a warm smile. “Novak,” she called out, her tone calm. “The hostages are clear.”

Novak was startled, his hands freezing mid-motion. He turned toward her with wide eyes, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. “I …” His voice cracked. “This wasn’t supposed to—” He kicked a leg of the desk next to him, startling the tech seated behind it. “I don’t know—” Novak tugged at his hair. “I can’t⁠—”

“What’s wrong?” Caine asked.

“Everything’s—” Novak stammered, looking more and more uncomfortable by the second. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Caine exchanged a glance with Holloway who was approaching. The confusion in Novak’s voice was unsettling.

Crossing his arms, Holloway raised an eyebrow. “What’s the story here?”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Novak repeated, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Not like this.”

Caine stepped forward cautiously, her hand raised in a calming gesture. “Novak, slow down. Take a breath.”

Novak backed up, pacing in tight, quick circles, murmuring in incoherent ramblings under his breath. “This is wrong.” He crooked a finger at Caine and Holloway. “All wrong.”

“Caine,” Holloway whispered into her ear. “What’s his problem?”

“I don’t know.” She reached out toward Novak, certain that the gesture would rattle a man of his sensitivities, but she didn’t know what else to do.”

Novak ogled Caine’s hand.

Holloway took a step forward.

The tech wizard then broke into an all-out sprint toward the gym’s exit door.

“Novak!” Caine shouted, taking off after him. “Stop!”

The nerve-rattled Novak hustled toward the door, pushing past agents who looked up in surprise as he rushed by. Caine and Holloway chased after him, certain that their tech-savvy liaison was in the throes of a mental break.

A panicked Novak burst out of the command center and into the hallway, moving at a frantic pace.

Caine and Holloway were hot on his heels. Novak was faster than they had anticipated, turning sharp corners and darting down hallways with frantic energy.

“Novak! Warren Novak!” Caine called out as she rounded a corner. “Please! Stop!”

Novak’s eyes were wild, talking incoherently as he ran, his body jerking with every step. Caine and Holloway could barely keep up. The man’s erratic movements led them down a long hallway.

Suddenly, Novak veered off into a stairwell and headed down to the basement.

“Stop!” Caine yelled one last time, but Novak didn’t listen. He charged down the stairs, his pace erratic, quick, and jumpy.

Holloway and Caine followed Novak, their footsteps echoing in the tight space. As Novak reached the bottom, he bolted for one of the storage rooms at the far end of the corridor. As he fumbled with the door handle, Caine and Holloway caught up to him. Caine reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him back before he could open the door.

“Novak!” she barked into his face, her voice sharp and loud. “Settle. Down!”

Novak froze, his breathing shallow and ragged as he looked at her with wide, tear-filled eyes. “I didn’t want this,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.”

Caine held up her hand. “It’s okay. We’ll talk this out.” She wrangled Novak’s arms with Holloway’s assistance. “Easy.”

Then Caine felt something small and hard in Novak’s pocket. Her hand quickly reached inside, pulling out a sleek, black satellite phone, its screen faintly glowing.

Caine’s eyes widened as she stared at the device. “What is this?”

Novak didn’t answer right away. He looked at the phone and then at Caine, his face full of fear and regret. “Please,” he pleaded. “Don’t.”

Holloway stepped forward, his eyes studying the device as he took it from Caine. “This isn’t a regular cell phone, Novak.” He bored his stare through the small man. “What is this? Why do you have it?”

Novak shook his head. “This was supposed to go my way.” He crumpled to the floor, shaking uncontrollably. “The plan was perfect.” He held his head in his hands. “This is all Blackwood’s fault.”

Caine’s pulse quickened as she inspected the phone. Like Holloway had said, it clearly wasn’t a standard piece of equipment. “Put him in a locked room,” she told Holloway. “And find out what the hell this device is.”

31

The air around the campus was thick with tension as Dean approached Ranger Road, Glock in hand. Ahead of him, Stoker waited in the middle of the road, his hands at his sides, one of them gripping his own sidearm.

“Good luck, laddie,” Woody said. “I’m rooting for you.”

As Dean slowly walked over to Stoker, the silence hung heavy in the space between them. Stoker, tall and imposing, squared off with Dean whose jaw was clenched and eyes hard with determination. The atmosphere crackled with tension. The fight was coming, one fueled by the hatred Stoker had held against Dean for years.

Dean’s fists tightened at his sides, his stance firm. “Okay, Major,” he proclaimed. “I’m here.”

Stoker leered darkly, his eyes full of confidence. “Drop the piece,” Stoker ordered.

“You first,” Dean retorted.

Stoker gnashed his teeth. “Same time.”

The men quickly stripped their weapons, tossed the pieces simultaneously, and stood at attention. A crisp breeze blew through, lapping at the back of Dean’s sweat-glazed neck.

“Go ahead,” Dean said. “Say how much you’re going to enjoy this.” He motioned around the campus. “This is what we’ve been building up to all night.”

Stoker, shaking his head, took a step closer. “No taunts. No retorts.” He raised his fist. “Just do what I trained you to do, Corporal.”

Dean flared his nostrils.

Drew a breath.

Without warning, Dean dashed forward and threw a quick jab at Stoker’s midsection. The punch landed, but Stoker quickly twisted out of the way and countered with a hard blow to Dean’s jaw. Dean staggered back and quickly regained his footing, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip.

“Not bad,” Dean muttered. “For an old guy.”

Dean charged again, a flurry of punches aimed at Stoker’s torso and head. Stoker absorbed most of the blows, using his size and experience to block them. Their bodies collided in quick, sharp movements, fists flying, the sounds of their strikes echoing in the air.

Dean landed a clean blow to Stoker’s ribs, but Stoker retaliated with a swift kick to Dean’s stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs and sending him stumbling back. Dean grunted in pain but quickly recovered, his focus sharpened.

“Shit,” Woody remarked. “Don’t you have like twenty years of youth on this old fart?”

Dean charged again, landing a solid hook to Stoker’s temple. Stoker’s head snapped to the side, but he managed to remain upright. Spinning on his heel, Stoker unleashed a brutal elbow to Dean’s face. The strike landed hard. Dean staggered back, tasting blood in his mouth.

“You’ve fallen off your game, Corporal,” Stoker said, spitting on the ground. “I’m riddled with cancer. You’re the one with the advantage here.” He shook his head. “I’m a bit disappointed, son.”

Dean wiped his lip, his eyes shimmering with fury. “Cancer?”

Stoker nodded. “I blame the Army for that.” He pointed a finger. “But you’re the one who really took my life away.”

Dean came at Stoker once more, but before either man could land a hit, the sound of a bullet being chambered into a weapon drew both of their attention.

Dean threw a look to his left to see Crisp emerging from the shadows, his eyes cold and calculating.

“Back off, Blackwood,” Crisp aimed the Glock in his hand at Dean’s head. “Now.”

Stoker glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening. “What are you doing here, Captain?”

“Staying by your side, Major.” Crisp’s voice was steady as he took a step forward. “I’m owed this as much as you are.” His gaze flickered briefly to Dean and then back to Stoker. “I heard about the airstrike. To be honest with you, sir, I’d rather go down fighting beside you here than spend the rest of my life alone in some tropical paradise.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean groaned, rolling his eyes. “You always were a shithead, Crisp.”

“Likewise.” Crisp lowered his weapon, ejected the magazine, and removed the round from the chamber. “Now let’s get to it.”

Dean eyed both men as they circled him.

Shook his head.

“Two against one,” Woody commented. “This is a first.”

In a flash, Crisp moved in with the speed of a seasoned fighter, sidestepping Dean’s punches with ease before he landed a punch to Dean’s ribs. Dean grunted in pain but didn’t lose his footing, gnashing his teeth as he turned to face Crisp.

Dean threw a quick jab to Crisps’s stomach and followed it with a sharp cross to his jaw. A moment after he landed the blow, Stoker grunted, dashed toward Dean, and threw a brutal uppercut that connected with Dean’s chin. Dean stumbled back, disoriented for a moment, but he quickly found his footing.

Seeing an opening, Dean surged forward, delivering a swift kick to Stoker’s side. Stoker shouted in pain.

Crisp moved in, swinging his arms with coordinated precision. He threw three punches at Dean’s head. Dean blocked the first two, but the third hit its mark on Dean’s jaw, fracturing it.

The fight had devolved into chaos. Fists flew, each man fighting with everything he had, but Dean relied on his experience and strength to keep them at bay. He blocked and parried, striking back with a savage precision, but the attacks from Crisp and Stoker were relentless.

This ain’t good.

Dean felt blood pooling in his mouth and a searing pain radiating across his ribs.

They’re kicking my friggin’ ass.

The blows from Stoker and Crisp intensified. Dean’s movements slowed as his energy started to wane. Crisp and Stoker continued to work in tandem, their attacks becoming more synchronized. Dean managed to block several of their strikes, but the more punches they threw, the more he felt himself being pummelled into the ground.

At one point, Dean found an opening. He landed a punch to Stoker’s midsection, which made the older man stumble back a few steps. Not wasting the opportunity, Dean delivered a series of quick, punishing blows to Stoker’s face and chest. Stoker tried to block them, but his reactions were slowing down.

Momentarily taking Stoker out of the game, Dean pivoted his sights to Crisp. The pair exchanged several blows, all of them in quick succession.

Dean threw an elbow into Crisp’s chin, his old Captain staggering back on wobbly legs.

There!

Dean eyed Crisp’s left knee.

Do it!

With a swift kick, Dean drove his booted heel into Crisp’s knee. He heard it crack, probably a fracture. His former Captain fell to the ground, screaming in pain through clenched teeth as he pawed at his twisted knee. Crisp was on the ground now, and Dean took advantage of it. He raised his leg and drove his heel down into Crisp’s left arm. Again, he heard a crack.

Broken.

Boom.

Dean spun around and settled his sights on Stoker.

Stay down.

Stoker—bleeding and sweating—stood up, growling in frustration and swinging wildly at Dean. But Dean ducked under the punches and then landed an uppercut to Stoker’s chin. As Stoker reeled, he reached behind his back and pulled out his Ka-Bar from the back of his belt.

“Okay,” Stoker grumbled, waving the knife around. “Enough.”

In response, Dean drew out the Ka-Bar Holloway had given him before the mission began. The blade glinted in the moonlight as he circled Stoker, keeping his focus locked on the man’s hands so he could anticipate the incoming strikes.

Dean and Stoker faced off, knives in hand, both waiting for the other to make the first move. Stoker lunged forward with a swift swipe aimed at Dean’s midsection, but Dean jumped back and twisted to his left. Stoker’s blade missed him by mere inches.

Dean countered with a quick slash, but Stoker parried it with a precise block, their blades meeting with a sharp clang.

The two circled, their blades never coming close to making contact with each other’s bodies.

He taught me these moves.

Dean glimpsed at Crisp through the corner of his eye.

Him and the gimp there.

“Come on, Corporal,” Stoker barked. “Do it!”

Dean squinted, hearing the taxation in Stoker’s voice. The older man was on his last legs, struggling to catch his breath.

You’ve got this, Deano.

Dean spread his feet.

Now do it!

Dean’s next move was a quick, controlled advance, his knife aimed more to redirect Stoker’s than to strike. With a quick smooth motion, he charged toward Stoker, his former Major thrusting his blade toward Dean’s belly as they collided.

The two men embraced violently.

Dean snapped his head forward into Stoker’s nose, crushing it.

Before Stoker could recover, Dean launched himself at him, delivering a final, crushing punch to the older man’s jaw. The blow sent Stoker crashing to the ground with a heavy thud. For a moment, the only sound Dean could hear was his own panting.

He backed away from Stoker, his former Major struggling to hang onto consciousness.

Dean looked over at Crisp who was reeling on the ground, his leg and arm bent at unnatural angles.

Then Dean turned his gaze down to Stoker. Gritting his teeth, Dean laid eyes on the handle of Stoker’s Ka-Bar that was sticking out of his own left side.

“Damn it,” Dean moaned as he dropped to his knees. “Could’ve done without that.”

Stoker lay motionless, dazed and disoriented. He groaned as he struggled to sit up, but whatever stamina he had left was gone. Dean stared at his former superior, observing the old man bleeding and wheezing before he slumped down flat on his back.

“Stay down, Major,” Dean instructed, his eyelids fluttering, his consciousness fading.

It’s over.

Stoker didn’t respond. He only gazed up at Dean with a mixture of respect and begrudging defeat in his eyes.

“Not bad, Corporal,” Stoker mumbled. “Not bad.”

Dean nodded.

Stoker collapsed.

Drawing a huge breath, Dean did the same.

32

“It was Novak,” Holloway informed Caine. The pair stood outside the gymnasium, reeling from everything that had just happened. “Somehow, some way, he contacted Major Ethan Stoker and arranged this little situation inside JPL.”

For a moment, an overwhelmed, taxed, and bewildered Caine said nothing as she observed the temporary evacuation center set up in the quad. The hostages—all of them—had arrived and were being treated by EMTs. The ones in better shape were being questioned by agents from both the FBI and the CIA.

“You only questioned Novak for a little under an hour,” Caine said. “How did you get him to break?”

Holloway smirked. “Wasn’t that hard.” He held up his hands. “I didn’t need to use anything in the way of advanced interrogation with him. He broke down immediately. It was kind of hard to understand what he was saying between sobs and jerking, but I think I got the full picture.”

“So,” Caine shrugged, “what did Novak confess to?”

“He hired Stoker. Paid him 200 million in crypto. That was the deal. He set it all up like Stoker was leading some radical religious group—mercenaries pretending to be these doomsday zealots. Stoker and his crew were supposed to storm JPL and get everything to a boiling point.”

Caine nodded, the play making sense given Atkins’ nature. “Decimate the campus,” she winced. “But why?”

“Novak wanted to buy the campus afterward when enough had been destroyed so no one else would buy it.”

“What for?”

“Well,” Holloway laughed, “as crazy as it sounds, he was planning on snatching up the real estate—JPL, the land, the hi-tech stuff, everything. He only destroyed the parts of JPL that didn’t matter to him. He had this whole plan in motion to turn the ruins into a sort of experimental utopia. A ‘city of the future,’ if you want to call it that.”

The story, as insane as it sounded, made sense to Caine. “What was Novak’s idea here? That he’s a modern-day mogul, trying to create a new world from the ashes?”

“Exactly that.” Holloway surveyed the scene, watching the hostages being consoled and questioned at the same time. “Novak was obsessed with the idea.” He nodded over his shoulder. “I had one of my people inside do a deep dive into Novak—his social media, podcasts, appearances, TED talks, and more. Apparently, Novak’s been mentioning this idea for years. He’s stated on several occasions how experimental cities under constant CCTV surveillance were, in his words, the ‘next logical step to take in Western society.’”

“So …” Caine took a moment to knead her tensed-up neck muscles. “Novak thought that if the campus got destroyed, he could buy it for pennies on the dollar. He’d have the perfect location for his little experimental city.”

“It sounds insane,” Holloway said, “but he had the connections and the resources to pull it off. It was all about real estate and the high-tech elements Novak would salvage and know how to repurpose. Someone like Novak would know how to do that. A campus like JPL, that’s prime property. Especially after it was bombed and partially burned.”

“He would have never pulled it off.” Caine shook her head. “It’s deranged.”

“Is it?” Holloway rubbed his chin. “In this present day and age, the world is a madhouse. Truth is irrelevant. Wealth is disproportionately distributed to the top one percent on a level it’s never been before. In a lot of ways, men like Novak—tech wizards, or at least that’s how they see themselves—have all the money in the world.”

“And money buys power,” Caine mumbled, finishing the thought. “Influence. Men like Novak have the means, the freedom, and the sway to live out their silly little fantasies, to come up with outlandish plans like …” She gazed in the direction of the JPL campus, refraining from saying the rest.

Holloway nodded. “That’s right. The way Novak explained it to me, he’s got this vision of a society built on pure intellectualism—an isolated, experimental city. Like a high-tech laboratory where the rules don’t apply. People would essentially live under his idealized system—free from what he calls the ‘decay of civilization.’ No borders, no regulations. Novak’s version of freedom.”

“Sounds like a recipe for disaster if you ask me.” Caine angled her body toward Holloway. “What about John Andress? Does he fit into this whole thing, or was it just Novak?”

“That’s the part that gets really twisted,” Holloway explained. “Andress is not simply Novak’s business rival the media makes him out to be. Novak and Andress had this whole public feud going on, but it was all staged. They’ve been playing this game for years, even when Novak took over Andress’s company.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Holloway shook his head. “It’s all part of the cover. Behind closed doors, Novak and Andress were in bed together—metaphorically speaking. Both of them wanted the same thing—control over JPL and the future of its campus. Andress was the one who suggested bringing in Stoker.”

The narrative was one Caine struggled to process. Novak’s confession, the utter madness he had shared, felt like something ripped straight from a fever dream.

“How did Andress know about Stoker?” she asked. “Why did he choose him?”

“Through Andress’s nephew,” Holloway explained, his lip curled into a sneer. “Mark P. Kennefick.”

“My God.” Caine pressed her back against a wall. She felt like the wind had gotten knocked out of her.

“After Kennefick was taken down following Dean’s testimony about all the war crimes, Andress did everything he could to get his nephew out. He was fully aware of what had happened with Stoker, Crisp, and Kennefick in Kandahar back in 2008. By the time Andress began crafting his plan with Novak, he knew he had the perfect soldier to carry it out.”

“This is unhinged,” Caine stated. “You’re telling me that Novak and Andress recruited Stoker?”

“We all know that Andress and Novak are both nuts. But when you put those two minds together,” Holloway huffed, “man, it’s a dangerous combination. Andress was always the more calculating one. Novak, he was the visionary. They were playing the long game.”

“But Andress died forty-eight hours before the attack on JPL,” Caine argued.

“Novak had him killed,” Holloway explained. “It was a clean hit, made to look like an accident. Stoker and his crew staged it to look like carbon monoxide poisoning in his house. Real subtle. They made sure no one would question it.”

Caine put both hands on her head. “Why would Novak kill Andress? I thought they were in this together.”

“Novak was determined all along to be the one in control when he created his utopian city. He wanted to be the sole ruler. He made that crystal clear to me back there in that room.”

Madness.

The muscles in the back of Caine’s neck knotted, teasing a headache.

Complete and utter insanity.

“What about this whole religious angle with the Templars?” Caine asked. “Was that just a cover for Stoker’s mercs?

“It was,” Holloway said. “Novak and Andress cooked up the whole idea of the religious zealots, an apocalyptic cult looking to make a statement. And they ended up with very compliant followers. But it was a smoke screen. They needed a reason to justify an armed takeover. They knew people would buy into the religious angle, thinking it was some kind of protest or extremist movement. But really, Stoker’s crew was just doing Novak’s dirty work.”

“Then Novak was really the one pulling the strings the whole time,” Caine added.

Holloway stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It gets even more messed up.” He paused. “Novak’s been the one calling himself the New Father in these series of videos the Templars released.”

Caine’s mouth dropped open. “Novak made the videos?”

“It was part of the ruse. Novak positioned himself as the cult leader.” Holloway gestured toward the gym. “I’ve got the digital ops team on those videos right now. They’ll run facial recognition, analyze the audio—every angle. We’ll have concrete proof it was Novak behind those recordings.”

“How the hell did Novak manage to pull this off?” Caine asked. “I mean, he somehow persuaded Stoker⁠—”

“He paid Stoker.”

“Well, either way, Stoker somehow convinced a group of rogue mercs to follow him on a religious crusade. If we can capture Stoker alive—if Dean can actually pull this off—maybe we can get Stoker to fill in the blanks and complete the story.” Caine threw up her hands. “But we won’t know until we get in touch with Dean, if we hear from him, and right now it’s been close to twenty minutes since he checked in.”

“ I’ve got a drone flying over the JPL campus to try to get eyes on the situation. If we don’t hear from Dean soon, I’ll send in a team.”

“What about Atkins?”

Holloway’s lips bowed up into a cocksure grin. “Atkins is taking a back seat for the rest of this op. After I touched base with my people at Langley and told them what happened, how Atkins acted and what happened with Novak, they called Atkins back to the Pentagon. They’re getting him ready to leave right now.”

“So,” Caine said, “you’re in charge now?”

“Temporarily.” Holloway winked. “But yeah.”

A chilled breeze swept through, drying the perspiration on Caine’s face. She stayed pressed against the wall, her gaze fixed on the hostages, wondering if Dean was okay. Her mind was racing, trying to process the madness that had just unfolded and wondering if it was all some kind of nightmare.

“You know,” Caine began, choosing her words carefully, “I joined the FBI to try to make sense of the world. After my husband …” She wouldn’t share the details, her voice faltering slightly. “I was once consumed by the conviction that the world was nothing but a relentless circus of negativity, spinning endlessly in chaos.”

“Grim,” Holloway replied. “But understandable.”

“I couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was chaotic, devoid of any true goodness.” She tilted her chin toward the hostages. “Moments like these push my patience and my resolve to a breaking point.” Caine was silent for a moment, wondering if Novak was still squirming around on the floor of the room where he was being held. “Men like Novak are a dime a dozen these days,” she said, lowering her head. “I fear what kind of world they will leave for my daughter, if there’s even one left to leave.”

A stone-faced Holloway inched closer to Caine. “That’s a very pessimistic way of looking at things.” He rubbed his hands together. “Usually when someone starts in on rhetoric like this, it precedes them handing over their two-week notice.”

“I’m not quitting my job at the Bureau,” Caine assured him, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Moments like this—moments of doubt—are inevitable. But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up. No matter how crazy things get, I’ll never quit. Not for my daughter and not for every other child out there. I’m in this fight for them, for all of us. Even when the odds seem impossible, I will always push, always strive to make this world better because that’s the only way we move forward.”

Holloway gave her a huge smile. “You’ve been a pleasure to work with, Agent Caine. Frankly, I could use someone like you over at the Agency.”

“I’m happy where I am at the Bureau,” she said, pausing for a moment before continuing. “The world needs people like us, Holloway. Like Dean. That’s the point I’m making. Right now, we’re standing at a crossroads. Things are going to get a hell of a lot worse before they get better. There will always be another Novak. Men like him seem to be everywhere these days. But it’s up to us—the ones who are willing to stand for what’s right, to fight for those who can’t, to push back no matter how bad it gets.” She stared up at the moon streaked with wisps of stringy clouds. “We have to make sure we live to see another day.”

“Poetic.”

“Yeah,” Caine smirked. “I picked up a few things in Honors English back in high school.”

The pair shook hands, sharing a brief laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. Caine opened her mouth to ask Holloway if his team had any updates on the drone flying over the JPL campus, but before she could speak, Holloway’s radio crackled to life.

“Holloway,” an agent called out over the airwaves. “We’ve got eyes on Blackwood. He’s alive.”

33

Dean heard the beeps first—steady, mechanical, pressing into the silence. Each one felt like a reminder, sharp and relentless.

His vision was black—a complete absence of light.

Am I dead?

Is this it?

Then came the scratching. It wasn’t a sound he could place at first—just a dragging, a constant scratch. It sounded like a record player needle skipping on vinyl, over and over again.

What the hell is that?

What is going on?

Dean tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were heavy, unwilling to cooperate.

The beeping grew faster, more insistent.

Slowly, the darkness in Dean’s vision was replaced by a harsh white light. He blinked, trying to focus. His head pounded the likes of which he had never felt before.

“Dead men don’t feel, laddie,” Woody whispered. “I think we’re still alive.”

The light in Dean’s eyes softened. The room around him began to take shape. He could make out white walls, machines, the unmistakable aroma of antiseptic.

A hospital?

He could see his hands tethered to a series of tubes and machines.

As his vision cleared, the scratching grew louder, mixed with a distant throb of music.

That’s “Biggest Part of Me” by Ambrosia.

Seriously?

Dean coughed, his body tensing up as it pushed back against a relentless onslaught of pain.

“Yo!” a familiar voice called out. “You good?”

Dean blinked a few more times and then glanced to his left. His vision was still blurry, but he recognized the voice. It was Freddy, his old assistant from his private investigation firm. A few more rubs of his eyes confirmed it. Freddy Bazz was at his bedside, scribbling and screeching with a purple marker on the plaster cast on Dean’s left arm.

“Freddy?” Dean groaned.

The kid flashed a toothy grin. He had a beard now. It had only been a year since Dean last saw him, but Freddy looked older, more mature.

“What’s crackin’, boss?” Freddy said as he continued scrawling on Dean’s cast.

“Where’s the music coming from?”

“My phone, bruh. Figured the soft rock might stir you awake. It’s pissing the nurses off something fierce though.” Freddy displayed four fingers in front of Dean’s face. “How many digits am I holding up?”

“Kid—”

“Is your brain scrambled? Do you know what year it is?” Freddy laughed. “You’re not going all Jason Bourne on me, are you?”

Freddy’s antics had once been a constant nuisance to Dean. But now Dean found himself appreciating him. If Freddy was there, Dean knew he was alive.

“Kid,” Dean mumbled. “Be a chum and shut the music off.”

“Yeah, dude. You got it.” Freddy abided by the request, thumbing off the tunes.

On the stand beside the bed, Dean clocked a vase filled with flowers. “Who sent those?”

“Some lady named Caine,” Freddy said. “She stopped by a few times while you were passed out.” He squinted. “She also told me to tell you something.” He snapped his fingers, trying to speed up his thought process. “That’s right.” He shook a finger. “She told me she’s glad you’re okay.”

Dean blinked his eyes slowly. “It took you some time to remember that?”

“Give me a break, dude. Not all of us have a memory like yours.” The kid’s expression turned sheepish. “Are you okay, by the way? I heard about what happened at JPL.”

“I don’t know.” Dean glanced at the cast on his arm before doing a quick assessment of his body. “Where am I?”

“Huntington Hospital,” Freddy explained. “Pasadena.” He glanced down at Dean’s cast, putting the finishing touches on his artwork. “You’ve been out of it for about three days. Docs said you broke your arm and cracked your ribs. They said something about a concussion too.” The kid’s eyes widened. “You also got stabbed in your left side.”

Dean nodded, feeling the sear of his wound. “Yep.”

“How’d that happen?”

“I’ll tell you about it later.” Dean thought about peeling back the sheets to make an assessment of his injury but refrained. “How bad is it?”

“They said the knife missed all the important stuff, which is a plus. You got skewered pretty good though.” Freddy held up a finger. “I told them you’re sober and stuff, so they tried to go easy with the pain meds and junk.”

Dean observed Freddy still scribbling away on his cast. “What are you writing there?”

“The Van Halen logo.” Freddy mimed playing air guitar and then let out a loud wail with his voice. “Classics never die, dude.”

“Stoker …” Dean closed his eyes, recalling the last few minutes that preceded his blackout. “Where is⁠—?

“He’s alive,” someone beckoned from the doorway. “So is Crisp.”

Dean lifted up his head, the movement triggering him to wince. Then Dean clocked Mike Holloway in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

“Howdy, bub,” Holloway greeted as he stepped into the room. “You look great.”

Dean flashed his middle finger.

Freddy stood and put the cap back on his Sharpie. “Mikey here reached out to me after everything that happened,” Freddy announced. His cocky and childish demeanor was fading. “Blew my mind when he told me it was you over there dealing with all that stuff at JPL.” He huffed. “Friggin’ wild, dude.”

With a wry smile, Dean examined his assistant. In time, he would tell the kid that he missed him while he was away. He planned on asking him what he had been up to and how he’d been faring, but now was not the time.

“I, uh …” Freddy coughed into his fist as he headed toward the door. “I’m gonna get some coffee.” He snapped his fingers and pointed a finger gun at Holloway. “You want something? Water? Gatorade?” He gawked at Holloway’s attire, sneering. “A better suit?”

Holloway nodded and chuckled. “Get lost, kid. I gotta bend our mutual pal’s ear for a moment.”

“Easy.” Freddy held up his hands. “I’ll step out. It’s no sweat off my back.”

“Jesus, Bazz,” Dean groaned. “Good to know some things haven’t changed.”

The kid lingered in the doorway, staring at Dean with a concerned look. His mouth opened as if he was searching for the right words.

“We can, uh …” Freddy cleared his throat. “Catch up when you get back.” He narrowed his eyes. “That cool?”

“Yeah.” Dean nodded. “That’s cool.”

“You …” The kid wrung his fingers. “Are you okay, boss?”

“I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s smile grew. “I’m sure, kid.”

“Sweet. Right on.” Freddy stopped and turned back around. “Let me know if you need anything. I was gonna stick around for a while in case you need something.”

“Thanks, kid.” Dean offered a salute, immediately regretting it when several sharp pangs reminded him of his wounds.

With a smirk, Freddy snapped his heels and left. As soon as he was out of the room, Holloway closed the door.

“He missed you,” he said, taking a seat beside Dean’s bed.

“Yeah.” Dean looked at the Van Halen logo Freddy had scribbled on his cast. “Same here.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like hammered shit.” Dean attempted to sit up in his bed but couldn’t summon the energy. Holloway stood up and propped a pillow under his head.

“Take it easy, Blackwood. You got tuned up pretty good.”

“How are the other guys looking?”

“They’re under armed guard two floors down,” Holloway explained, smirking. “You took Crisp and Stoker on at the same time, according to what they said.”

“So they’re alive?”

Holloway nodded. “Yeah, they’re still with us.”

“Did they …?” Dean made a gesture with his hands. “Did they say anything?”

“They did.” Holloway sat back down and leaned back. “And so did Warren Novak.”

“What do you mean?”

For the next ten minutes, Holloway filled Dean in—Novak’s recruitment of Stoker, the deal they’d struck, the fake religious angle, and Novak’s plan with Andress to turn JPL into a utopian city once the dust settled. Dean asked several clarifying questions, convinced that Holloway was pulling his leg. But he wasn’t.

“Take a second to process it,” Holloway said. “We’re still sorting through everything on our end. Keeping Stoker and Crisp intact has been a huge help with that.”

“This is nuts, Mike,” Dean replied. “You’re seriously telling me that this whole thing was arranged by Novak so he could live out some …” he hit the “f” in the next word as hard as he could … “fantasy?”

“Afraid so.”

“For the love of God.” Dean closed his eyes. “This is wild.”

“Yep.” Holloway patted him on his cast. “Completely fucktangular on all sides.”

The pair went on to discuss the details of what had transpired during Dean’s three-way fight with Stoker and Crisp. And Holloway shared more of Novak’s confession. The fallout from the event had been significant, and according to Holloway, it had inspired him to approach his superiors at Langley with an idea.

34

“After everything that went down,” Holloway said, his gaze fixed to the wall, “it got me thinking about how insane the world has gotten. How people like Novak and the chaos he stirred up are a clear sign of what’s to come in the next few years. Everything’s in disarray right now, bud. It’s completely and utterly chaotic.”

“Yep.” Dean shot a look toward the cast on his arm. “I had a good sense that was the case a few days ago.”

Holloway threw up his hands, letting out a defeated sigh. “Everyone on both sides of the aisle is just making it worse. Things have become so wildly unstable, and I can’t shake the feeling that this whole thing with Novak, the mess at JPL—is not going to be the first or the last time this kind of insanity plays out.”

“The world has always been a shitshow, Mike,” Dean grumbled as he dwelled on thoughts of his past. “And I’ve had a front-row seat for a good chunk of it.”

“That you have,” Holloway said, his voice steady. “And you’ve managed to immerse yourself in the very core of chaos, seize command, and neutralize it with precision.” He tapped his finger in sync with his words. “Every. Single. Time.”

“Good God.” Dean rolled his eyes. “You practiced that in the mirror a few times, didn’t you?”

“Think about it, Deano.” Holloway raised his hands, gesturing as if he were painting a grand vision. “For too long we’ve been operating with our hands tied, with too many bureaucratic bottlenecks slowing us down.”

“That’s always been the case, man. There’s always red tape.”

“And we can’t afford to sit idly by while the world falls apart,” Holloway continued, his voice hardening. “And all this while people like Novak run rampant and those in power tear everything down to serve their own whims.”

“What would you propose then, hotshot?” Dean asked. “Tell me.”

“I want to set up a specialized program.” Holloway straightened his back. “Something more direct, something with real hard-hitters. This is a nugget of an idea, mind you. It’s nothing more than an elevator pitch, but I think it’s got real potential.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Hard-hitters? You mean what? Like the old-school covert ops teams?”

“Think of it as a specialized team of field agents,” Holloway explained. “A group that can act swiftly and decisively, dealing with high-priority threats while maintaining discretion. We’re talking about operations that prioritize efficiency and results with minimal red tape—covert, but with a purpose. To restore order, not create chaos.”

“Christ.” Dean shook his head. “The last thing the world needs is more shadowy organizations like that, Mike. I was part of one for far too long at the Bureau. The world needs structure. This country needs stability more than it ever has before. It doesn’t need rogue assets tearing shit up.”

“I’m not talking about indiscriminate violence,” Holloway clarified. “What I’m proposing is a unit focused on taking down figures like Stoker and Novak. We’re essentially talking about targeting the corrupt elements of our society at every level and holding them accountable.”

“And who is going to determine who is corrupt, Mike?” Dean motioned to his buddy. “You?”

Holloway leaned forward, his gaze intense. “You and me, pal. We hand-pick a team—candidates we can vet, people with a strong moral compass, those willing to hunt down the Novaks of the world and others who are determined to dismantle our society for nothing more than their own greed and power.”

“This isn’t the first time someone’s pitched this idea,” Dean said, his stomach knotting. “It’s been tried before, over and over, and it always ends the same. Those in charge start acting like Julius Friggin’ Caesar.”

“It won’t be easy,” Holloway replied. “This program, the select few you and I handpick, will be held accountable at every turn. We will never allow it to become corrupt. The focus will remain clear—restoring stability and nothing else.” He stared at Dean. “Look at what happened at JPL. Think about how Atkins handled himself. How things spiraled so quickly. Dude, it was a mess, classic example of the kind of instability we’re facing and how those in charge are either too corrupt or too incompetent to control it.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s hand grazed the bandage on his left side. “No shit.”

Holloway leaned in slightly, his tone softening. “But then there’s you, Dean. You were the one who brought order to the chaos over at that campus, and it caught the attention of the right people. I’m talking about the ones at the highest levels in the intelligence community, those who still believe in doing the right things, not what’s done out of self-interest. They saw what you did, how you handled yourself, and they believe it’s a sign that the system can be restructured and rebuilt to restore order. They want someone like you to be on the frontlines now instead of all these assholes who are willing to disrupt the system for nothing more than their own personal gain.”

Dean shook his head, skeptical. “You want me on this team?”

Holloway nodded. “We both know what you’re capable of, pal. Your methods may be a bit unorthodox, but you’ve always had a good head on your shoulders. That’s what would count here with this unit—people with scruples who have their heads screwed on straight.”

“The jury’s out with you on that last part,” Woody chimed in. “To be fair.”

Dean mulled over the offer, instinctively feeling it was a bad idea—one that would only lead to more mistakes down the road. “This is a bad idea, Mike,” he said. “I like the idea of seeing the Novaks taken out, but you can never guarantee that a program like this will remain incorruptible.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do.”

“And I trust you,” Holloway said, brimming with determination. “If you and I were in charge of this thing, if we were the ones leading the charge, what we would accomplish would be limitless. We could keep this thing intact, and we would shut it down the second we thought it had been compromised.”

Dean said nothing, his focus on the blipping machines flanking his bed.

“I’m not asking you to answer right away,” Holloway said. “It’s more important that you rest. And as for our little arrangement we made before we sent you to the campus, you’re free and clear of all past charges. Whatever you did, whatever crimes you may have committed are a mute point.” He smiled. “You’re free, my friend. Your slate is wiped clean.”

The newsflash instilled Dean with a newfound hope. Still, he was wary of Holloway’s new pitch and what it would entail if he decided to sign on.

“You have plenty of time to think about this, bud,” Holloway said. “And know that this program, or whatever we decide to call it, is one where we will be calling the shots. If there’s a mission you don’t like, if you feel you don’t want to take the risks, you can opt out.”

Tempting.

But foolish.

Dean leaned his head back.

Man, I don’t know what to think here.

“Think it over,” Holloway said, rising from his seat. “I need to iron out some details and have a few more conversations with you about it, but this job could be a perfect fit. You’ll make a difference, Deano, like you always do. For now, though ...” Holloway paused, “spend some time with your visitors.”

Dean winced. “Visitors?”

Saying nothing more, Holloway left the room, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts. Before he could process anything further, two figures stepped into the doorway. For a brief moment, Dean wondered if he was still in a coma.

Wait.

No.

Dean’s lips parted into a warm grin.

It can’t be.

He saw Grace, his little preschool daughter—much taller than she was the last time he saw her. And there was her mother, Layla, holding Grace’s hand as they stood in the doorway.

“Hey,” Dean whispered, a whirlwind of emotions overcoming him as they stepped into the room.

Layla—still as beautiful as ever—stepped over to Dean’s right side of the bed with a timid Grace clutching her hand tightly. Layla offered him a wry grin, biting her lip, just as confused and overwhelmed as Dean was.

“Hi, Dean,” Layla greeted.

Dean said nothing, stunned by the sight of his daughter and her mother standing next to him by his bed. The two of them were bathed in the warm glow of the sun streaming through the window, making it feel as though he were living in a dream.

For years they’ve been gone.

Too long.

Tears welled in Dean’s eyes.

I can’t believe this is real.

Layla raised Grace’s hand. “Say hi to your daddy, sweetie.”

A blushing Grace waved her little hand. “Hi, Daddy.”

The emotional floodgates broke open for Dean as Layla sat down on a chair. She propped Grace on her lap, the pair gazing at Dean with a mix of confusion, concern, and deep affection reflected in their expressions.

“I heard what happened,” Layla whimpered. “We came as soon as we found out you were …” her expression tightened, a mixture of anger and relief, “you were back.”

Guilt, fear, and trepidation swelled within Dean. He wiped away the tears in the corners of his eyes, uncertain of what to say. It had been a long time since he’d seen Grace or Layla. The last time they’d been together, Layla had made the difficult decision to distance herself from Dean—and the chaotic life he led—in order to protect their daughter.

“I’m sorry, Layla,” Dean finally muttered. “I never wanted to—” His voice was strained. “I only wanted⁠—”

Layla reached out, grabbed Dean’s right arm, and squeezed. “Forget about that for now,” she said. “We’re here to be with you.”

Don’t leave.

Stay.

Dean stared deep into his daughter’s eyes. He was teeming with hope.

I can’t bear the thought of you two ever leaving again.

“You don’t have to stay for long,” Dean said, his voice shaking. “If you don’t want to.”

Layla shook her head. Her hold on Dean’s arm tightened. “We want to be here.” Her lips quivered. She smiled. A tear rolled down her cheek. “We want to be with you.”

Nothing more was said. Grace, despite her mother’s protests, crawled onto Dean’s bed and embraced her daddy. The pain it caused Dean’s battered body was significant, but it was well worth it.

“Hold onto this, Deano,” Woody beckoned. “These are the moments that really count.”

Layla placed her hand in Dean’s.

Grace coiled her arm around her father’s neck.

The family sat in silence for a long moment. Whatever would happen next, whatever the future entailed for Dean and all the members of his family, he didn’t know. But at that moment, all his pain, worries, and fears faded as he held his daughter close, determined to never let her go.

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Thank you for reading Savage Kill, book 7 in the Dean Blackwood series.

To pre-order book 8, Shadow Kill, click here.

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